


The Young Wolf

by The_Professor_Of_Writing



Series: The Young Wolf Trilogy [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Death, Fantasy, Gen, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 36
Words: 84,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4087396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Professor_Of_Writing/pseuds/The_Professor_Of_Writing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Where Roose Bolton is killed at the Battle of the Crag, taking a spear for his king. Now, Robb Stark's war against the south threatens even the Lannisters, the most powerful House in Westeros. Balon Greyjoy plots on the Iron Islands, seething in revenge. Stannis Baratheon marches on King's Landing, his brother's corpse behind him. The Martells scheme against the Lannisters. Tyrion prepares for the worst.<br/>Winter is coming. Who will live to see the spring?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catelyn I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I'm very new to this site, so if you have any advice, please tell me!  
> I hope you like this story, it's my first proper ASOIAF piece of writing, and I hope I got all the characters right. I won't be accepting any suggestions, at least not for this part of the story; I've planned it all out - mostly - so, yeah.  
> Thanks again for reading, and hope to see you soon for chapter two!!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The She-Trout returns home, with the news that the Golden Stag is dead. The Wolf's pack looks for directions.

**CATELYN**

The rain pelted down on the sea of tents. Twenty-five thousand Northmen and thirty thousand Riverlanders were camped outside the huge sprawling castle that was Riverrun. There was a sense of unease about the men, each one as different as the arms on their surcoats. Sword hands twitched constantly, and there were many rumours about where they were headed next.

The army of Robb Stark was itching to fight.

Catelyn Stark felt hundreds of eyes upon her as she rode up to the gates. Behind her was a score of well-armoured knights. Alongside her rode a huge person clad in thick plate armour.

As Catelyn arrived at the huge oak door, it swung slowly open to greet her. Three men walked out. In the centre was her son, Robb Stark, The King in the North. He wore a long black cloak and a boiled-leather tunic. Belted to his hip was his longsword. Prowling at his heels was the huge grey direwolf, Grey Wind. Only a year old, yet standing as tall as her son, Cat felt shivers run down her spine at the sight of the direwolf, even now. On Robb’s left was Cat’s uncle, Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. The Blackfish was an old man by now, his once auburn mane of hair was now a drizzly grey. He wore black, as was his custom. Catelyn knew that he did not like being here; he’d quit Riverrun before the War of the Ninepenny Kings, decades ago. Being back only brought sour memories. On Robb’s right was Ser Edmure Tully, Catelyn’s younger brother and heir to Riverrun, his long face was melancholic as ever. Edmure was not the brightest of the Tully children, and that was saying something. Even Lysa made better decisions. Cat didn’t need to ask about the health of her father. She knew from the faces that something wasn’t right.

Catelyn dismounted, as did the knights around her. She walked to her son first, and embraced him. He had grown stronger, she could feel it in his arms, but his eyes were sadder than when she saw him last.

“How are you Mother?” he asked, “We heard news that Renly –”

“Renly Baratheon is dead,” Catelyn replied, “His brother Stannis now holds the Stormlands.”

“He sent a raven.” Robb said, his voice cold as ice, “He sent a raven _commanding_ me to bend the knee. I sent one back telling him to prepare his men.”

Catelyn took that moment to appreciate how old her son looked. No longer was he the babe she fed at her breast. No longer was he the boy who played with wooden swords in the godswood. He was six-and-ten, a man grown. On his chin grew a beard of thick auburn hair, so much like his father’s. _With it, he looks less like a Tully_ , Catelyn thought; _He’s a Northman now, in blood and in body_. On his head was the Crown of the North, a circle of black iron with spikes wrought in the shape of longswords.

“Robb, that was unwise.”

He ignored her, “Come inside. You must see your father.”

“Robb –”

“We’ll talk later.”

Catelyn was about to object, but stopped herself just as quickly. She dismissed the knights who followed her, all but the tall person beside her. She climbed the steps quickly. Her father – Lord Hoster Tully – was an old man, and an ill one. He had fallen ill two years ago, and Cat had not seen him for nearly a decade.

Behind her, Brienne of Tarth, Cat’s sworn sword, took off her helmet. The woman was as homely as she was good with a sword, with lank blonde hair and cool grey eyes. She had been one of Renly’s Rainbow Guard, and had been present when the King in Highgarden was slain. She had sworn herself to Catelyn as they rode out of the camp, fearing the wrath of Renly’s bannermen.

Hoster’s room was at the top of the highest tower of Riverrun. Catelyn bade Brienne wait outside, then opened the door slowly. At first, she thought she had arrived at the wrong room. Then she heard his voice.

“Lysa? Lysa, is that you?”

Cat opened the door fully and walked in. What she saw made her heart stop. Hoster Tully was less than a shrivelled relic of the man he once was.  He’d halved his weight, and his beard had grown wild in his illness. His hair had gone snow-white, and his features were sunken, his skin pallid. Catelyn sat on the edge of his bed. He looked at her with rheumy eyes.

“Lysa, I’m so sorry.”

“No, Father.” Catelyn clasped his hands. _When did you get so small?_ “It’s Cat. Your Cat.”

“Lysa? Seven save me, I’m so sorry, Lysa.”

“His mind slips further every day.”

Cat looked round, and saw the Blackfish standing by the door, his eyes deep and blue and sad.

“Is – is there any stopping it?”

The Blackfish shook his head, “The maesters have tried everything. I’m his own _brother_ , but he doesn’t even know my name.” He strode over, and put his arm around Cat’s shoulder, “Illness of the body is cruel enough. Why did the gods curse us with addled minds too?”

The two Tullys sat in silence for several minutes, just watching the rise of old Lord Hoster’s chest as he breathed slowly. Tears began to prick at Cat’s eyes before Brynden squeezed her shoulder.

“We must go down to my brother’s solar,” he said, his voice etched with sadness, “Robb has requested you at his war council.”

Cat wiped her eyes, squeezed her father’s hand by way of farewell, and walked downstairs accompanied by her uncle and Brienne.

Robb’s war council consisted of the three strongest lords of the North, Ser Aenys Frey – commander of the forces from the Twins – Brynden Blackfish and Robb himself. The six men were seated around a huge round oak table. There was a seventh seat which was empty. Cat felt uneasy as she sat down. On Robb’s left was Lord Jon Umber, called the Greatjon for his size and strength. Despite being near fifty years old, he was still the strongest man Cat knew. On Robb’s right was Lord Rickard Karstark, the hard lord of Karhold. He was as cold as the Greatjon was boisterous. There was also Lord Howland Reed of the crannogmen, a tall, thin man with mud-coloured hair and moss-green eyes. Cat knew him well; Ned always spoke fondly of the crannogman.

There was only one lord missing. “Your Grace,” Cat said, speaking directly to her son, “Where is Lord Bolton?”

Robb’s fist curled in anger, “Roose Bolton was slain in the Sack of the Crag. He took a spear meant for me. I mean to grant the Dreadfort to Ramsay, his bastard son, when this war is done. In the meantime we must plan our next move. Ser Aenys, what news of Stannis Baratheon?”

The Frey stood, “Lord Stannis marches on King’s Landing, Your Grace, at the head of an army of seventy-thousand.”

“What do you say we should do?”

“We should not march them down, Your Grace. Tywin Lannister is between them and us. To be caught between Baratheon and Lannister…” Frey shuddered, “It does not do to think of it, Your Grace.”

“Bollocks!” the Greatjon bellowed, “Do you know who you are speaking to? This is Robb Stark, King in the North! He’s never lost a battle. We should march on Tywin Lannister before he recovers his strength from the last fucking we gave him.” Umber’s eye caught Catelyn, “Begging your pardon, my lady.”

A small smile played across Robb’s lips, “Thank you for that, Lord Umber. What say you, Lord Karstark?”

The Lord of Karhold was an impressive man, broad in the belly and in the shoulder, “With respect, Your Grace, winning battles and winning wars is not the same thing. Robert Baratheon became King not by beating Aerys Targaryen in the field, but by laying waste to his city.”

“What do you propose?”

“I say we sack a city.”

“We have already sacked the Crag.”

Rickard Karstark spat, “That’s what the Crag is to Tywin Lannister. How much gold did we take from the Crag? How many men did the Westerlings grant you?”

Robb nodded slowly, “Thank you.”

 _He’s learning to listen._ Cat thought. The talk went around the table and eventually it was Catelyn’s turn.

“Your Grace,” she began, “my lords. You forget, we are fighting three wars. The Lannisters in the west, Balon Greyjoy in the north and Stannis Baratheon in the east, by proxy. Balon Greyjoy cannot hold the North, and Tywin Lannister marches to break Lord Stannis, having forgotten us. The Lannisters took my husband from me, took Eddard Stark from this world. For all I know, they have killed my daughters too. I say we show them how it feels to lose everything that is important to you. And there is nothing more important to a Lannister than gold. I say we should take Casterly Rock.”

A murmur of assent went around the table. Aenys Frey stood up to interject, “And what if Tywin Lannister attacks us beneath the walls of the Rock? We’ll be slaughtered, my lady.”

“I always thought the men of the Twins were cravens. You’ve got less balls between you than a horde of Unsullied” Jon Umber roared with glee, “And here I have a chance to prove it!” he turned to Robb, “Tywin will have taken most of his men with him. Do not lay siege to Casterly Rock. That is how we beat them here at Riverrun. We should take it from them as soon as we can.”

“Lord Umber,” Ser Aenys replied, reddening from the insult, “you forget. No army has broken the Rock in thousands of years. Even Lann the Clever only managed it by trickery.”

Lord Howland Reed, who had been silent throughout the entire council spoke up. His voice was less than a whisper, yet all listened intently, “Then perhaps we should follow in his footsteps. We know of the catacombs beneath the Rock. Your Grace, let me take a thousand crannogmen into the castle while you and yours feign siege. We shall deliver the castle to you within the night.”

“Fie on your words, crannogman,” Aenys Frey snarled, “you and your bog devils. Do not trust him, Your Grace. Those of the bogs are evil men and dull ones too.”

 Howland Reed did not raise his voice, “I trust that you have a better plan, Ser?”

Aenys Frey spluttered stupidly, but he was saved the trouble of speaking by his King.

Robb stood up. “I thank you for your counsel, my lords. As you say, Tywin Lannister and Stannis Baratheon are marching to meet each other. The Ironborn are only raiding. We’ll take the Rock, plunder it of gold, and then slay Tywin Lannister as he recovers from the stag.”  A roar rolled around the table at that. “We’ll march at dawn.” Robb added.

After the war council had cleared out, only Cat remained with her son. “Robb, that raven you sent to Stannis Baratheon –”

“I know how unwise it was.” he sighed deeply, “I never thought fighting a war would be this hard. Will Stannis negotiate?”

Catelyn hesitated. If Robb took the Westerlands, he would rule most of Westeros. But Stannis Baratheon had all the arrogance of Robert and none of the humour. “Stannis is a good warrior, a proven commander. What he lacks is support. The storm lords only flock to him because he was Renly’s heir. The Tyrells have yet to declare, but my heart tells me Mace Tyrell will fight for Tywin,” Catelyn sighed, “Stannis Baratheon may be Robert’s true heir, as your father believed, but he cannot win this war. Not if six of seven kingdoms dispute his claim.”

“But if he _can_ win?”

“Then he will never negotiate with you. Stannis believes he is the true King of Westeros. _All_ of Westeros. He will not be contented with Dorne, the Reach, the Vale and King’s Landing.”

Robb sat down heavily, putting his head in his hands. “Like you said Mother, we are fighting three wars.”

“The Greyjoys –”

“The Greyjoys have taken Deepwood Motte, Torrhen’s Square and Moat Cailin. I will not be known as the Stark who Lost the North.” Robb’s voice was filled with cold anger. _Hurt too,_ Cat realised, _He sent Theon to bring the Iron Islands to our cause, but they’ve turned against us as well._

“Robb,” she said after a moment, “You cannot march on Casterly Rock, King’s Landing and Pyke.”

“I know that.” he stood and strode over to her, a sad look in his eye, “That’s why I’m sending you to treat with Balon Greyjoy.”

“What?”

The Young Wolf sighed, “I don’t have any other negotiators. All the Northmen want to tear Balon’s throat out, and I need them to advise me in battle.”

“Robb, I can’t –”

Robb’s eyes went dark, “I’m not asking you as a son. I’m telling you as your king. You _will_ go to Pyke and you _will_ make a peace with Balon Greyjoy. You will ride to Seagard on the morrow, and sail to Pyke.” he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. When he spoke again, it was softer, “Mother, you know as well as I do that we cannot win three wars at the same time. We need the Greyjoys and their fleet, and they need our armies to beat the Lannisters back. Remind Balon Greyjoy of our common goals.”

 _Seven save me. He sounds more like Ned every day._ Cat held her son’s gaze for a moment, before nodding mutely. Robb Stark left his mother there, looking out of the window. Catelyn stayed for a long while, before retiring to her old chambers.

They’d changed little since she was a girl. Cat remembered the times when she and Lysa would sit on the bed and talk of the men they would marry. _Lysa only talked about Petyr,_ she remembered, _and I was obsessed with Brandon Stark._ There was a small pane of polished silver, and Cat looked at her reflection. _Those times were so happy. Where did all my sadness come from?_

But that was when she was a girl, before Rheagar Targaryen stole Lyanna Stark away, before Mad King Aerys murdered her Brandon and his father Rickard, before Robert and his rebellion, before Ned, before her son fell from the tower, before the Lannisters killed Jon Arryn, before that bastard Joffrey took Ned away from her.

Catelyn Stark’s life had been happy. Mayhaps she was different from the hard Northmen, but that wasn’t a bad thing. She’d learned to love them, learned to know Ned as she’d never known Brandon, love him like no-one else. But that was all gone now. And Catelyn Stark had learned to hate.

“Gods,” she said, praying quietly, “gods of the North, gods of the Seven, please hear me. If there is any mercy in you, any justice, then grant my son his victory. Grant me my vengeance against those who took my Ned. And grant death to the Lannisters.”

After praying a little more, Cat lay down to sleep. The bed felt so _wrong_ without Eddard’s comforting body there, like a shield to guard her from any threats. Her dreams were strange too. She dreamt of a wolf’s head on a man’s body, of a river burning end to end, of a stag being strangled by roses, with a hot sun burning overhead. She dreamt of a great black dragon, flying over endless grasses. She was alone on a cliff. The dragon saw her and swooped down to swallow her up.

Catelyn Stark woke in a cold sweat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	2. Tyrion I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council of Fools hears of the Wolf's preying, and the Halfman finds himself alone.

TYRION

Tyrion Lannister, also known as the Imp, dwarf son of Tywin Lannister, waddled into the small council chamber yawning. It was still dark outside, with no hint of the sun. He sat in the Hand’s seat and looked around the chamber at his fellow small council members. Old Grand Maester Pycelle slumped in his chair, nearly asleep. Tyrion felt a gleam of pride at the old man’s tufty beard, which he himself had shorn off. _Well, to be presice, it was Shagga._

On Pycelle’s left was Lord Petyr Baelish. Called Littlefinger after the tiny spit of land his family owned on the very edge of the Vale, Baelish was the annoyingly manipulative Master of Coin. Tyrion had never fully trusted Littlefinger, and was rather wary of the man’s talent for rubbing two dragons together and producing a third from thin air.

Next to Tyrion sat Varys, the Spider. The Master of Whisperers wore a purple velvet robe and lilac slippers, his skin smelling of some exotic flower or other. His utterly hairless face was permanently twisted into a knowing and mysterious smile. Tyrion still felt uneasy around the eunuch, despite Varys’ attempts to persuade Tyrion into trusting him.

At the opposite end of the table were the Queen Regent and her son, Joffrey Baratheon, the Golden Stag. Cersei Lannister seemed to be conflicted. For his part, Joffrey was fuming. Tyrion knew all about Joffrey’s heritage; it was the worst-kept secret on the small council. Even though the boy had no claim to the Iron Throne whatsoever, he was Tyrion’s best chance of surviving this war. Stannis Baratheon was known for taking his revenge seriously, and Tyrion figured that Catelyn Stark still hated him.  _For no clear reason, I might add._ _  
_

“My Lord Hand,” Littlefinger said smugly, “so glad you could join us.”

Tyrion ignored the man’s jibe and turned to his sister, “What in all the seven hells could be so important that I was dragged out of bed at this hour? I have other things to do other than attend small council meetings.”

Cersei glared at him, as if he had suggested handing the city over to Stannis himself. Tyrion had never seen his sweet sister so angry before, and he had had plenty experience of her hatred. Noticing that she wasn’t going to speak, Varys leaned in, “It seems that Robb Stark has laid siege to Casterly Rock.”

Tyrion’s mind went blank. He opened his mouth, closed it again, swallowed, and spoke, “What?”

“You heard.” Cersei’s voice was deadly quiet, “That little brat is besieging our home.”

Tyrion frowned, “And where is Father whilst this is happening?”

“He is on the march, coming to hunt Stannis Baratheon down. It would be hard for a raven to reach him.” Cersei sighed, “His strategy is sound, I admit. Stannis Baratheon won’t besiege us, not with Father at his rear. He’ll storm the city as soon as he can, and we can’t hold off all the stormlanders at once. Father _needs_ to come to protect Joff and Tommen; otherwise our war is already lost.”

Tyrion nodded, mulling that over in his head. “So, what do we do?”

“If Robb Stark has an ounce of sense he’ll come here after taking Casterly Rock. There are less than a hundred men there, and Lord Tywin took all the supplies with him. The siege won’t last longer than a few weeks.” Littlefinger said, his voice mockingly grave, “We allow him to set up camps beneath our walls, and then Lord Tywin will lead an army out of the gates and crush the Young Wolf where he stands.”

Tyrion nodded. _There’s something here I’m missing._ “What news of Balon Greyjoy?”

Cersei’s face twisted into a horrid smile, “It appears that the kraken’s son has taken Winterfell from the Starks. With thirty men, no less.”

“An admirable feat,” Tyrion replied, “But there are more than thirty northmen remaining in White Harbour, at the Last Hearth, in Karhold. Robb Stark only took twenty-five thousand northerners with him, and left behind many lords. Theon Greyjoy will not hold Winterfell for long.”

“Yes,” Cersei replied sharply, “But Robb Stark is young and foolish. He will march back to Winterfell, and we shall take back the Riverlands.”

“Robb Stark can’t be that foolish,” Tyrion argued, “He’s won every battle he’s fought, he’s besieging Casterly Rock. He knows where to hit us, and he knows how to beat Father. He’s winning this war in the south. As I say, the North will reject the Greyjoys, just as it has rejected all other attackers.”

“Perhaps Robb Stark will not go and retake the North,” Joffrey said, interjecting for the first time, “But he’s counselled by that oaf Lord Umber. _He’ll_ take the slight and threaten Stark with his own men marching home lest the Ironborn run rampant in that frigid wasteland he calls home.”

Tyrion sighed. His nephew still had a few things to learn, “The Greatjon is not Robb Stark’s only councillor. Galbart Glover, Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont –”

Joffrey interrupted with a wave of his hand, “Savages, every one.”

“Have you forgotten the Blackfish, Your Grace?” Tyrion’s voice was colder than the Wall, “Or Lord Howland Reed, one of Ned Stark’s closest friends?”

“With respect, Lord Hand,” Pycelle said, “Brynden Blackfish is an old man, and Howland Reed knows not the truth of warfare. The crannogmen are all cravens who fight with poison, not steel.”

 _Who are you to call a man craven?_ Tyrion thought viciously. _You squealed like a pig when I threatened to cut your wrinkled cock off. And who knows poison better than any man in the Seven Kingdoms? Who poisoned Jon Arryn?_  “So what do the wise men of the small council suggest? We squat here in King’s Landing while Stannis Baratheon breaks our gates down? While Robb Stark takes the Rock?”

Littlefinger produced a scroll from thin air, “I have a map showing the weak places in our city’s walls,” he pointed to half a dozen spots on the map, “I trust the Hand will see to our defence?”

“Well, there’s no-one else here who can be bothered.” Tyrion shot back. He sighed and looked over the map. Littlefinger had kindly circled the points which he thought needed the most maintenance. Marked on the map were the positions of the catapults and scorpions, and the places where the gold-cloaks would be able to exit the city fastest.

Tyrion sighed and rolled the scroll up his sleeve. “I take it I must act immediately?”

Littlefinger nodded. Tyrion got down from his chair and waddled off down the hall. The Red Keep’s interior was huge, and at present was full of about four hundred gold cloaks, of the city’s two thousand. The Kingsguard patrolled the halls day and night, to protect the royal family. Tyrion gestured to Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Meryn Trant to follow him down to the Mud Gate. It was one of seven huge gates into King’s Landing, directly opposite the gate that led to the Kingsroad. It backed onto Blackwater Bay, giving it its proper name, the River Gate. Three centuries of rain and sun had left the wood warped. Tyrion ordered that the gate be reinforced with steel. _Stannis will attack by sea,_ he thought, _it’s his only chance._

Tyrion inspected the rest of the gates, and ordered reinforcements on all of them. He then dismissed the two knights and went to the Alchemist’s Guild. Hallyne the Pyromancer welcomed Tyrion far too warmly for the dwarf’s liking, spending too long with pleasantries.

“I didn’t come here to be flattered, Hallyne,” Tyrion snapped after a short while, “How many jars of wildfire have you produced?”

“Half a thousand, my Lord Hand,” Hallyne replied, his voice croaked with age, “We shall have made a thousand by the next moon’s turn.”

“I do not believe we have that long,” Tyrion replied grimly, “Will five hundred be enough?”

“Mayhaps, Lord Hand. Wildfire is unpredictable in its nature, as unpredictable as the winds…”

Tyrion allowed him to blither on about wildfire for a while, before bidding the pyromancer goodbye and waddling back to his chambers in the Tower of the Hand.

Bronn was waiting for him. The sellsword was seated at Tyrion’s table eating figs from a golden bowl. Podrick Payne, Tyrion’s idiotic yet strangely endearing squire was standing next to him, holding a skin of wine.

“You look pissed.” Bronn remarked flippantly at Tyrion’s dour expression.

“I’ve just learned that my home is under siege from the son of Eddard Stark,” Tyrion replied coolly, “and that Stannis Baratheon is less than a week’s ride from the capital. I’m not like to be making jokes, am I?”

Bronn chuckled, “Finally, something to _do_ in this city!”

Tyrion arched an eyebrow, “Do you _want_ to be slain by the grimmest man in all Westeros?”

Bronn leaned forward, popping a fig into his mouth as he did so, “How many duels has Stannis Baratheon fought in? How many times has he sliced a man from gullet to groin? How many times has he actually fought in a battle? Not as many as I have, I’ll wager. That’s the thing about all you high lords, sitting in your castles bleating about honour. Wars aren’t won with sentiment and chivalry; they’re won with steel and blood.”

“Something Stannis understands better than most.” Tyrion sat down heavily, “Lord Stannis Baratheon is perhaps the best battle commander alive, perhaps surpassing even my father. If there’s anyone who can take King’s Landing, it’s him.”

“So? Why aren’t you fucking off somewhere nice and safe then?”

Tyrion glared at the sellsword’s mocking tone, “Because, I have a plan that will save the city. Listen very, very carefully…”

By the time Tyrion had finished relating his – rather brilliant – plan to Bronn, it was getting light. The sun shone red over the towers of King’s Landing. It was going to be a warm day. Bronn left him after that to see to Tyrion’s requests, and Tyrion decided it was time for some food.

He broke his fast on bacon dribbling with fat and steamed sausages. Tyrion usually ate his food with gusto, but today was different. Perhaps the thought of impending vengeance from Stannis Baratheon or Robb Stark for the crime of being a Lannister was making his stomach churn. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that he would have to man the defences of this stinking shithole of a city, either because no-one else was competent, or no-one else cared.

Tyrion leaned back and reflected how different his life would be if Mad King Aerys had agreed to marry Cersei to Rheagar. _Not so mad in that affair._

Tyrion himself would probably be in some brothel or another, whoring away without a care in the world whilst his father watched on from afar with distaste. Jaime would still be a Kingsguard, but he would be _here_ in King’s Landing. Robert Baratheon, Ned Stark and Jon Arryn would still be walking the land, Robert married to Stark’s sister, but probably with half a hundred bastards.  _Robert would never be any different._ _  
_

But, this was the life he had been given. There was no use wishing for a world that would never be. The gods weren’t that just. They were better than men at everything, or so the septons said, so they must be crueller, they must be more spiteful, they must be even fuller of hate than Cersei could ever be.

 _And I’m the butt of their jokes too._ Tyrion thought ruefully. It seemed both men and gods despised the malformed. Just his luck.

A little later on, Tyrion walked the walls again, this time with Lord Varys and the King. Joffrey was being his usual idiotic self, of course, and Tyrion did his best not to gouge the bastard’s eyes out.

“I don’t see why you’re bothering with all these defences, uncle.” Joffrey remarked snidely, “Stannis will never breach the outer wall. Grandfather will smash him before he even gets to the capital.”

“If you say so, Your Grace.” Varys simpered. “But even so, Lord Tyrion is wise. What if some horror befalls your grandsire on the road? You cannot mean to repel Stannis Baratheon with two thousand gold-cloaks.”

“Why not?”

“Because Stannis has determination. He truly believes he should have the throne. His will is of iron, Your Grace. He also has many times your number.”

Joffrey considered that. Then, after a moment, “They say he never smiles.” the young King smirked coldly, and loosened his sword in his scabbard, “I’ll give him a red smile, from ear to ear. Stannis Baratheon is no match for me, the _true_ King on the Iron Throne.”

With that, Joffrey swaggered off back to the keep. Tyrion smiled wanly, “Imagine Stannis’ terror.”

“I am trying.”

The two men walked to the edge of the wall, and looked out over Blackwater Bay. _These waters will be filled with blood soon_ , Tyrion thought, _and not all of it will be that of Stannis and his bannermen._

“What do you want, Lord Varys?”

“Pardon?”

Tyrion wrinkled his nose, “I’ve been meaning to ask for a while. Everyone wants something; Littlefinger wants power, Cersei wants me dead, Joffrey wants everyone to fear him. But you are far less obvious. What do you want?”

Varys leaned down to Tyrion’s eye level, “If we’re going to play, you’ll have to go first.”

 _So be it._ “I want a nice, quiet life. Is that too much to ask? A wife with nice tits and a loving temperament, a castle with nice views and my sister’s head on a spike.” Tyrion sighed sadly, “Why are the gods such vicious cunts? There’s the shrivelled Crone and the grim-faced Father. The northmen have their weeping heart-trees, and Stannis has his Lord of Light. Where, I ask you, where is the God of Tits and Wine?”

An almost wistful smile danced across Varys’ lips, “In the Summer Isles they worship a fertility goddess with sixteen teats.”

Tyrion laughed aloud, “Why am I still here?” then, “You still haven’t answered my question, Lord Varys. What do you want?”

Varys hesitated, “Peace, my Lord. Everyone seems to think my purpose is to pit one high lord against another in this game we play, but that is not my goal at all. I advise the King against any threats, both present and future, so that he may maintain a state of order in this chaotic world of ours. When you first came to King’s Landing, I asked you a riddle. Have you figured it out yet?”

“The three great men; rich, royal and religious, all seated across from a sellsword?” Tyrion smiled slightly, “I’d say it is my duty as a Lannister to say it was the rich man, but as the King’s Hand shouldn’t I say it is the King? But the rich men are having problems finding their gold, and there are too many Kings to count.”

“And the priest?”

“The gods are just as splintered as the Seven Kingdoms. Like I said, Stannis has his Red God, we have the Seven and Robb Stark bows down to none but trees.” Tyrion sighed, “Is there truly an answer?”

Varys smiled mysteriously, “I suppose you will just have to watch and see.”

He tossed a coin at Tyrion. The dwarf caught it in one hand. Varys walked away in a swirl of silk and perfume, leaving Tyrion to contemplate the eunuch’s words. He had always known the eunuch was several steps ahead of the rest of the realm, but something about that last remark made Tyrion very uneasy indeed. He turned away, and made his way back to the Tower of the Hand.

Tyrion slipped the golden dragon into his pocket.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	3. The Dornish Viper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Viper and the Prince debate the future of the realm.

THE DORNISH VIPER

Prince Oberyn Martell strode proudly through the Water Gardens. He was a tall, lithe man, with olive skin and black hair. His eyes glittered with wit and danger. He wore long silks and had a short sword strapped to his side.

Before him stood the great villa of the Water Gardens. It was raised one hundred and eighty seven years after Aegon’s Conquest by Prince Maron Martell after he married Daenerys, daughter of Aegon the Fourth. The Water Gardens were a peaceful place, and Prince Doran Martell spent most of his days there.

Oberyn sauntered up the stairs and walked to his chambers. On the bed lay Ellaria Sand, his current paramour. The day was still young, and Ellaria had not yet awoken. Her body was still tangled up in the silken sheets of the bed, but that did not stop Oberyn from tracing a finger up her long, shapely leg.

He poured himself a goblet of wine – a sour Dornish red – and sipped carefully at it, sitting on the edge of his bed. He pulled out a book, and began to read. It was a large and hefty tome, written by a Maester Malleon, and detailed the histories of all the great and small houses of Westeros.

Oberyn opened the book to the pages of House Baratheon, Lords of Storm’s End. He traced his finger from Orys Baratheon, Aegon’s bastard brother, down through the centuries to Robert, once King on the Iron Throne. The family then went to Joffrey, Robert’s eldest son. Oberyn smiled softly to himself.

It was at that moment he felt a smooth hand on his back. His paramour had awoken. He turned to find eyes of dark hazel looking deep into his own. Oberyn Martell smiled and kissed Ellaria. The sheets fell away, exposing her exquisite curves to him. He smiled again, but pulled away nonetheless, rather uncharacteristically.

Ellaria looked hurt, “Is something wrong, my love?”

He cupped her cheek lovingly, “No, my darling Ellaria. I have business I must discuss with my brother.”

Ellaria laughed softly and slipped a hand between Oberyn’s legs, rubbing his hardness, “It is still early. Your brother will not rise for hours yet.” she leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “And I am awake and here right now.”

Oberyn relaxed at his paramour’s sultry words. He rolled so that he was beneath her, and allowed her to unfasten his breeches. When she was done he leaned up to kiss her again, more fiercely this time. Ellaria rolled her hips over his hardened length, and allowed him to play with her full breasts.

They did not take long together, and after Oberyn had spent himself inside of her, he lay down, holding her tight.

“What business do you have with the Prince of Dorne, my love?”

Oberyn sighed and rolled onto his back, “Doran seems to be the only high lord not involved in this War of Five Kings. We had better chose a side, and quickly, elsewise the victor will see us as cowardly.”

Ellaria considered that, “Who would you have us support?”

Oberyn shrugged. _I had not quite thought of that yet._ “Perhaps we should support ourselves. Tywin Lannister ordered the death of my sister, and the Stag climbed over her corpse to put his fat arse on the Iron Throne. The Starks are little better.”

“And Balon Greyjoy?”

“I do not like these Ironborn,” Oberyn replied, chuckling, “their men are bitter shits and the less said about the women the better.”

Ellaria smiled at that. _Such a pretty smile,_ Oberyn thought, _and so rare to see even a glimmer of one in these days of conflict._

The two lovers stayed in each other’s arms for nearly an hour, and went at each other twice more, before Oberyn climbed out of bed. As he was pulling on his clothes, Ellaria spoke to him again, “I hear Robb Stark has besieged the Rock.”

“This is true,” Oberyn replied, “Mayhaps the boy is not as stupid as I had once presumed.”

A smile played across the bastard’s lips, “Is that admiration I hear?”

Oberyn did not return the smile, “I do not admire our enemies. Respect, aye. But never will I admire them.”

With that he strode out of his chambers, and began the walk to Prince Doran’s apartments. It was rather a long walk, as Oberyn preferred to spend his days practising with his daughters, the Sand Snakes. Doran, on the other hand, liked to watch the children at play from afar, deep within his thoughts. Oberyn often wondered what his brother thought about. There was only ever one thought in the Red Viper’s mind: revenge for Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon. There was something in the air, Oberyn could feel it. _Soon,_ he thought, _soon they will be avenged._

He walked quickly up the steps to Prince Doran’s apartments. Outside the door stood a huge man with onyx skin and a giant longaxe strapped to his back.

“Captain Hotah,” Oberyn addressed the man courteously. He had been within striking distance of that longaxe before, and misliked aggravating the man who carried it, “I would like to see my brother.”

Without speaking, Areo Hotah motioned for Oberyn to step inside. The Red Viper nodded his courtesy and strode to see his brother.

Where Oberyn was lithe and slim, Prince Doran was stout and round. He had none of Oberyn’s dark locks; his hair had gone to white much faster over the years. Doran Martell sat in a wheeled chair, his gout preventing him from moving at all without aid. His sad eyes were focused out over the Water Gardens, watching the children at play.

“My brother,” Oberyn said as he approached the Prince of Dorne, “Have you read Lord Stannis’ message?”

Doran smiled weakly, “That I have. ‘I, King Stannis the First of my Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, do command you, Prince Doran of Dorne to swear fealty to me, as rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.’ There is more, but it all paints the same picture.”

“What do you say we do?”

“I must admit that I do not know,” Doran sighed, “I rather expected Robb Stark to be less successful in his war against Tywin Lannister. The boy is young, but a great warrior in the making, or so it would seem.”

“Your great warrior has lost his homeland.” Oberyn replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Through treachery and deception,” Doran replied, “two things honourable men never see. Lord Eddard Stark proved that the day he lost his head.” he wheeled himself away from the window and looked at Oberyn sadly, “What do _you_ suggest, dear brother?”

“I want vengeance for our blood.” Oberyn replied instantly, venom in his voice, “And I will fight for the side that will promise me that vengeance.”

Doran sighed, “It is always the same with you, isn’t it?”

“Have you forgotten Elia?” Oberyn’s hand slammed down on the table, knocking over Doran’s goblet of wine, “What about Aegon? What about Rhaenys? Your own sister was raped by a monster! Do not tell me you will not even _attempt_ to bring the man who did this to justice!”

“When does it stop?” Doran argued, “If you slay Tywin Lannister then the rest of the Lannisters will kill you. Then your Sand Snakes will kill them. Then someone else will try to kill them. And on it goes, blood feud after blood feud after blood feud.”

“It is _justice_.”

“Who will you slay for your vengeance?” Doran enquired softly.

Oberyn shrugged, “Tywin Lannister. The Mountain That Rides. Armory Lorch. The Baratheons. Robb Stark.”

Doran’s eyes grew cold, “Robb Stark had no part in Elia’s murder. The blame for that rides with Tywin and the Mountain alone.”

“ _Eddard Stark_ fought with the Usurper in his rebellion. I cannot bring him to justice, but his son will account for his crimes.” Oberyn’s voice was harsh as winter in that moment.

“You are seeking vengeance for the murder of two children,” Doran countered, “two children who were slain for the actions of their forebears. Your idea of justice is slaying a boy who had no choice in what his father did in a war that occurred before his birth? Think about what you are saying, Oberyn.”

The Red Viper had the good grace to look sheepish. He sat down heavily in a wicker chair, cradling his head in his hands. “All I want,” he said, “is a little justice in this world. The powerful take too much from the powerless. The strong prey on the weak and there are not enough good men anymore.”

Doran nodded slowly. There was a moment of silence. Oberyn looked at his brother with sadness in his eyes. _When did he get so old?_ Doran Martell was over fifty years old, more than a decade older than Oberyn himself. This gap in age was due to the other Martell siblings’ sickness in the cradle. None except Doran, Elia and Oberyn survived infancy. This in part was the cause of the three’s significant bond of protection. This in part was the cause of Doran’s sadness.

 “A year ago there was one King.” Prince Doran said slowly, “Now there are four. Westeros has been divided, setting brother against brother in a bitter conflict that may last into winter. Summer has lasted for ten years, and autumn has begun, even here in Dorne. The Iron Throne needs a strong leader, kinder than Joffrey, softer than Stannis, more experienced than Robb and more liked than Balon.”

“She is a world away, and going further every day.”

“Aye.” Doran replied sadly, “But we can get her to come back. The prospect of a marriage alliance will bring her to us.”

Oberyn arched an eyebrow, “With respect brother, Prince Quentyn is hardly the boy maids dream of.  He has little savvy with a sword, he is as comely as a stoat and he will not inherit. What can we offer Daenerys that the other Houses cannot offer ten times over?”

“Justice.”

“But you said –”

“I remember what I said,” Doran interrupted brusquely, “and you have taken my meaning incorrectly. Siding with the Lannisters will never give us our justice, no matter their promises. ‘A Lannister always lies,’ would be better words for them.” he sighed, “Perhaps Lord Stannis would be best.”

Oberyn’s eyes widened in horror, “The second Baratheon brother –”

“Is a just man, by all accounts,” Doran replied, “Robert is dead, and Stannis is nothing like his brother. If what it says in this letter is true, then Stannis is the true King. If he wins this war, how do you think he will treat with us if we dither on the side? He will never give us our justice.”

That stopped Oberyn. He hesitated. He knew that Doran was right. Stannis Baratheon had a reputation for his justice, harsh as it may sometimes seem. On the other hand, he was the brother of Robert the Usurper, brother of the man who caused the rebellion that killed Elia. He nodded, admitting defeat.

“But what of Robb Stark, Doran?” this question was more cautious, weighted carefully.

Doran too hesitated, “He went to war to avenge the death of his father. We must not begrudge him that. But the riverlords and the northmen have made him their king. Now he besieges Casterly Rock, the home of the West. If he can persuade the lords of the west to join him, he will be the most powerful man in Westeros, a warrior king with one hundred and forty thousand men at his back. His aunt, Lysa Arryn rules the Vale. If she joins him, he will command nearly two hundred thousand swords, enough to conquer Westeros five times over.”

“Lysa Arryn will not endanger her son for anyone, blood relative or no.” Oberyn argued.

“The fact remains,” the Prince of Dorne replied, shrugging, “that Robb Stark is winning this war. As is Balon Greyjoy, who fights for the same reason.” Doran paused for a moment, and Oberyn sensed that his brother was about to say something that would change the course of history, “Aegon the Conqueror united the Seven Kingdoms into one, after twelve thousand years of division. What has that brought us? Three centuries of revolts, deceit and corruption.”

Oberyn narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “What are you trying to say brother?”

“Perhaps Aegon’s experiment was unsuccessful,” Doran replied, “Perhaps the Seven Kingdoms were meant to be separate. After all, there are Seven gods, seven knights of a Kingsguard, seven Great Houses. There is no reason why the Kingdoms should be one.”

Oberyn laughed. There was no faulting that, “So, we fight for Stannis?”

Doran reclined in his chair before replying, “Stannis is on his way to capture King’s Landing at the head of a stormlord force. Should he take the capital, you will go in my place to swear fealty for Dorne. However, you will also tell him that we support both Robb Stark’s and Balon Greyjoy’s quests for independence, and we will fight him if we must.”

“And what if he fails?”

“Then there will be no second-chances,” Doran replied, “We will see how Robb Stark fares in his war. If the Lannisters beat him back, we will have no choice but to bow to Cersei’s Bastard. We are too few to stop the Lannisters on our own.”

Oberyn nodded, and stood. He inclined his head to his brother, and made to leave the room.

“Oberyn!” Doran called, “Take some of the Sand Snakes with you. No others.”

Oberyn smiled smugly, and took his leave. He nodded solemnly to the captain of the guards, and walked to the chambers of the Sand Snakes. Due to their status as bastards, their chambers were less resplendent than those of Oberyn himself, but only slightly. Dorne had a different attitude to those born of lower birth than the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

Inside were his three eldest; Obara, homely as she was hot-tempered, good with a sword and spear. Then there was Nymeria, with pale skin and a pretty face. Despite her maidenly looks, she was no less deadly than Obara. Finally Oberyn’s eyes settled on Tyene Sand, daughter of a septa Oberyn had lain with one-and-twenty years ago. Tyene was wont to use poisons instead of blades to slay her foes.

“My daughters,” Oberyn said calmly, “I trust by now that you have received news of Renly Baratheon’s death?”

They nodded.

“Good. You will know then, that his brother Stannis has assumed control over his forces. Should Stannis take the Iron Throne, we will ride north to swear fealty to him on Prince Doran’s behalf. Should he fail, we watch Robb Stark closely, and see the war go by.”

Obara was the first to reply. She always was, “I mislike this,” she pronounced swiftly, “I mislike this craven attitude to war. I say, we should call the banners and attack the Lannisters for ourselves.”

“Would you like us to be slaughtered, dear sister?” Tyene asked gently, “We have but five-and-twenty thousand soldiers, and the Lannisters are commanded by Lord Tywin himself.”

“Dorne has never fallen to an outsider.”

“Dorne has never fought in a foolish war.”

“I should have expected this,” Obara said haughtily, “Look at you, a _septa’s_ spawn. You may play at being deadly, but you’ll never truly master it unless you give up your foolish misgivings.”

Fire blazed behind Tyene’s otherwise gentle eyes. Noting that, Oberyn interrupted to prevent the argument from becoming a bloodbath, “Your Prince has commanded you not to intervene. Prince Doran does not punish lightly. Girls, get your horses saddled and ready to leave at any moment. News travels fast, and Dorne must be seen to support the new King if we are to retain our position.”

Tyene and Nymeria bowed and left. Obara glared at her father, before tilting her head and leaving the room. Prince Oberyn Martell was left alone in his daughters’ chambers with just his thoughts for company.

_Soon,_ he assured himself again, _soon I shall avenge you, Elia. Soon they who harmed you will be brought to justice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	4. The Burned Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Flaming Stag's host arrives at the city of corruption. The Hound faces a choice on the battlefield.

THE BURNED MAN

Sandor Clegane, unfavourably called the Hound, stood on the battlements of King’s Landing, and looked out over Blackwater Bay. Below him were the City Guard and the levies of all the Lords of the Crownlands. Ten thousand men. Sandor was expected to hold this city with ten thousand men. Stannis Baratheon had thrice that many, and more ships.

But, Sandor and his men were on the defensive, and these walls were hard to breach. At least, the Hound hoped so. He didn’t want to die here. He didn’t even want to _be_ here. _What the fuck did I do to deserve this?_ He thought miserably. He couldn’t see much at the moment; Sandor couldn’t even tell the difference between the sky and the waters. That was bad. Stannis had the weather on his side, and he could _see_ what he was trying to hit.

A tiny man ran up to Sandor, breathlessly. He couldn’t have been more than six-and-ten, and his face was bald as a baby’s arse. “Ser Sandor,” he said, panting, “Our scouts say that Lord Stannis is only three leagues from the shore. Do you have any orders, Ser?”

“Shut your cunt mouth and quit calling me Ser.” Sandor snarled, and the boy flinched. Perhaps he’d been too harsh on him. _Probably thinks every cunt in a suit of armour is a knight_. “Get the men ready. Stannis’ll be here soon. Any man who’s not ready to fight when he gets here is a dead man, got it?”

The boy nodded, and took off down the stairs faster than when he came up. Sandor went back to staring out at the bay. He could see boats now. Hundreds of boats. Nearly all of them were flying a flaming heart. _We don’t have that many,_  Sandor thought numbly. He could not picture this going well. Whether or not he got out of this alive, Sandor would be damned to all seven hells if he didn’t take some of these sons of whores with him.

“Dog!” _speaking of whoresons,_ “I see that battle hasn’t been joined yet.”

The King was striding up confidently towards Sandor, his armour scarlet, his sword strapped loosely at his hip. His uncle, the Imp, walked behind, wearing a resized suit of armour.

“Not yet, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Joffrey smirked cockily, “More for me, eh?”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion Lannister said quickly, “Perhaps it would be more prudent for you to remain within the city walls.”

“A good King should ride with his men into battle.” Joffrey retorted. “I can’t inspire them from behind my mother’s skirts.”

“You can’t inspire them from a grave.” Tyrion replied swiftly, and Sandor fought to hold back a snort.

He’d never liked Joffrey. It was only at the request of Tywin Lannister, his liege lord, that he guard the boy. He was certain that Robert Baratheon had no liking for him, due to Gregor’s reputation no doubt. The Drunk King was never proud of the deaths of those two royal children, even though he appreciated its necessity. Men like Robert Baratheon were common as mud these days; murderers and traitors who hid behind masks of honour. Sandor – and his older brother, though to a greater extent – were cut of a different mould. The Hound knew how shit the world was, and he didn’t see the point in pretending it was anything other than what it was.

But Joffrey was a step too far. The spoilt bastard irritated Sandor immensely, but, like a good little dog, he followed his orders, and did as he was bid without question. What he wouldn’t give to punch the brat’s pretty blond face in...

“Why is there only one ship?”

Joffrey caught Sandor’s attention by pointing out over the bay. Sure enough, the three could see a single boat set sail towards Stannis’ men. There were no lights on board, and Sandor frowned.

“There’s no-one on board.” he said, looking down at the Imp in confusion.

“Wait and see Hound, wait and see.” was all the dwarf had to say. Sandor went back to looking out across Blackwater Bay.

The boat sailed towards Stannis’ fleet slowly, as if anxious to deliver terrible news. Sandor suddenly noticed a trail of green following the boat. It was then that he understood the dwarf’s plan.

“What do you think, you are doing, uncle?” Joffrey asked, frustrated. “One boat won’t be enough to fight off that usurper!”

“How astute of you,” Tyrion replied, “Some plans are fast acting, and some require time and precision. This is one of those moments. A torch, if you please Clegane.”

The Hound did as he was bid. Tyrion tossed the blazing torch over the wall, to be sent tumbling down to the rocks below. Sandor waited for something to happen.

“Great.” Joffrey remarked dryly, “Well done uncle. Stannis Baratheon is clearly retreating in terror from your fierce defence.”

“Have patience, Your Grace.” Tyrion replied sharply. Joffrey glared at him, but made no more protest. By now, the ship was less than a hundred feet from Stannis’ flagship. A tiny flickering light soared across the bay. It took Sandor a moment to realise that it was a flaming arrow. _Your mind makes up for your stature, Imp,_ he thought with grudging respect.

The arrow had barely touched the water before Blackwater Bay erupted into green flame. Sandor winced, and it took all his willpower not to flee. The burned side of his face tingled from the memory of his youth. His brother Gregor was always violent, even as a youth. Sandor was just shy of his sixth name day when he was playing with one of Gregor’s toys. The ten-year-old had shoved his little brother’s face into a fire as punishment. Terrified of the dishonour that would befall his House, Sandor’s father had lied to everyone, claiming that Sandor’s bedsheets had caught fire. Although he mostly recovered from his injuries, the little boy that was Sandor Clegane died that night. After that, there was only the Hound.

_It just had to be fucking wildfire didn't it?_

The heat from the burning wildfire was so intense Sandor could feel it, even from a league away. The worst thing about the explosion was the screams. Sandor didn’t know how many men were on those boats, but he would guess around three thousand. He looked down at the Imp, whose ugly face was the very picture of grimness, and Sandor knew that Tyrion understood the horror and necessity of this action.

Joffrey on the other hand, was grinning ear to ear, the wildfire glimmering in his emerald eyes. Joffrey had few supporters in the city from what Sandor heard in taverns. Those that he often spoke to called him Robert the Second, scorning the Drunk King’s idiocy as they did so. As Sandor watched Joffrey’s face light up at the sight of three thousand men burning, he put forward a different idea. _Aerys the Third._ If Sandor didn’t already know Joffrey’s true parentage, he would suggest that the boy was a Targaryen bastard.

“Our fight isn’t over.” Sandor muttered, pointing towards the fleet of small boats that somehow evaded the burning hulls of Stannis’ armada. That would have been the foot soldiers of Stannis’ army. “I’ll sort the bastards out.”

Without waiting for an answer, he strode down the steps, donning his dog’s-head helm. Usually, he wore it to terrify his opponents. Today he wore it so that none may know his own terror. Before him were assembled most of the city’s soldiers. His voice came out harsh and mangled through the metal of his helm.

“If anyone of you sons of whores dies today with no blood on his blade, I’ll wade through all seven hells to kill you again,” he bellowed, never one for mincing his words. _They know some will die._ “If any one of Stannis Baratheon’s army makes it through that gate, I’ll throw you off the Wall. And if I see any man on fire get near me, I’ll knock your fucking brains in. Let’s go carve some meat.”

With that, the forces of King’s Landing burst out of the gate, and into Stannis’ horde. Sandor quickly lost track of his men, and was swamped instantly by Stormlanders. He hacked downwards, cleaving a man’s arm off through his chainmail, and punched the man in the face with his other fist. The man’s face crumpled like paper and Sandor felt the satisfying _crunch_ of breaking bones.

The man fell away from him, but he was quickly replaced by a knight with a bolt of lightning on his surcoat. He put up a better fight, but Sandor slid his sword into the knight’s chest all the same, blood spurting out when he yanked it free. A short while later, a particularly brave soldier spun at Sandor with an axe, but Sandor took him apart even quicker than his first man. _Stupid cunt, flailing about like that._

Suddenly, the Hound saw Stannis, standing on the beach wearing dull grey armour. He didn’t wear a helmet. No-one seemed to be going near him, but Sandor decided to change that. The Hound wasn’t one to lust for glory, but he wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity like this. He wasn’t going to ignore an end to this war when it presented itself.

Sandor waded towards Stannis through a wall of bodies, some living, some dying, and some dead. He was but ten feet from the King in the Narrow Sea when the bay erupted into yet another explosion of flame. A wave of horrible force knocked him backwards, and he reeled against the heat. All of a sudden he was six-years-old again, and he was screaming for his brother to stop, for the pain to stop.

Sandor Clegane stood stock still for what seemed like a hundred years. All the muscles in his body went tense, and suddenly there was nothing left but him and the flames.  _You're gonna die here._ Sandor told himself coldly,  _All for that stupid blond cunt._

In that moment, the Hound made his decision.

Sandor Clegane turned and walked back into the city. A tall thin pikeman ran at him, but his head came off with little more than a flick of Sandor’s wrist. The Hound was renowned for his great size and determination, and none of these gnats could stand against him. He forced his way through the throng of men crowding round the gate. He turned and saw the Imp staring at him in disbelief. Standing behind him, clearly rattled, was Joffrey. Sandor felt a small glow of glee at the Young Usurper looking like he’d shat himself, but it was drowned by his desperation to flee.

“Get me a drink!” he roared at a young squire, who nearly screamed at the sight of the Hound. Sandor popped off the cork, and took a long swig, before spitting it out everywhere, “Not water you fucking moron! _Bring me wine you cunt!_ ”

“What in seven hells are you doing?” Tyrion yelled over the din, rescuing the poor squire from Sandor’s wrath.

“Getting out.”

“Get back on the other side!”

“Eat shit Imp!” Sandor bellowed.

Tyrion held his ground, to his credit, “Your _Kingsguard!_ The King’s own sword. You can’t just _leave_ , what about the city?”

Whilst Sandor was not a calm man by any stretch of the imagination, he usually kept his emotions and thoughts in check. He would not have gotten as far as he had if he voiced every damn thing that came into his head. But, after seeing all the flames and feeling the rush of energy in his body, he snapped. “Fuck the Kingsguard,” he snarled up at the Imp, “Fuck the city.” _I might as well say it now, what can the cunts do to me?_ “FUCK THE KING!”

With that, he strode away into the city, but he wasn't going to leave yet. Sandor had other business in the city. He knew exactly where he was going to go.

HisLittle Bird’s chambers were dimly lit. _She’s not here. You’re an idiot for thinking she would be._ Sandor sighed and sat down, pouring himself some of her wine. He resolved to wait, so that his last memory of this city would be of something more comely than the Imp’s face.

Hours passed, and the battle raged on outside, the screams never seeming to abate, even for a moment. _She’s not coming_ , that voice in Sandor’s head spoke up again, _and why the fuck do you think she’ll want to see you? Her head’s full of Aemon the Dragonknight and Arthur Dayne. She’ll never feel the same way about you!_ But, ignoring that voice, Sandor merely sat and waited.

Dawn was peeping over the horizon when the door next opened. The battle was still raging, but Sandor’s attentions were diverted. Sansa Stark looked tired, but even fatigue couldn’t detract from her beauty. Her high cheekbones gave her a look of arrogant haughtiness, but his Little Bird was anything but proud. There was a kindness behind those Tully-blue eyes, a softness that was rare as dragonglass.

Sandor didn’t need a voice in his head to tell him he wasn’t worth her.

He stood, and she started at seeing him, “What are you doing here?” Sansa was trying to sound authoritative, he could tell, but the waver in her voice betrayed her fear.

“The Little Bird panics. I’m not going to hurt you.” Sandor reassured her, “I won’t be long. I’m going.”

“Where?”

“Fuck knows. North, probably. Anywhere that isn’t on fire.”

“What about the King?” _Still pretending to care, are you? Those sweet songs will take a lot to forget._

“He can die here without me.” Silence fell, “I could take you with me. Back to Riverrun, or Winterfell, or anywhere you want. I could take you somewhere safe.”

“I’ll be safe here,” Sansa replied, although she didn’t sound certain, “Stannis won’t hurt me. He-he was a friend to my father.”

Sandor Clegane stepped towards Sansa, towering over her, “You were betrothed to Joffrey. That’s a crime to Stannis fucking Baratheon. He’s a killer. Your father was a killer. Everyone’s a fucking killer. Better get used to that, Little Bird. If you can’t, get out of the way of those who can.”

Silence fell once more.

“You won’t hurt me, will you?” Sansa sounded very small, very scared. Like another little girl Sandor once knew, long before any of this.

“No, Little Bird,” he replied, the words softer than anything he’d said since boyhood, “I’d never hurt you.”

He didn’t remember if anything happened between them, all he remembered was walking out the door to her room and softy closing it behind him. He did remember a tingle on his ruined lips. The Hound quickly made his way down the steps to the stables, and clambered onto a huge horse black as night. He only made one more stop on his way out of the capital, and that was to pick up more wine.

He rode through the main gate and turned to the north, to the Riverlands. Perhaps fate would grant him a way to find peace. If not, then he hoped it would go fuck itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	5. Arya I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The She-Wolf has broken free of her shackles, and travels the Trout's Lands unnoticed.

ARYA

The road from Harrenhal was twisting and treacherous. Arya Stark reflected on this as her horse plodded dully along the winding pathways. They’d left King Harren the Black’s great fortress behind three days ago, but it was so huge it could still be seen on the horizon.

Arya remembered her brief time within those crumbling towers. She’d been cupbearer until Lord Bolton had gone to help her brother in the Westerlands. Arya had wanted so much to go with him, so that she could see her brother again. She’d almost been sorry to see him go, although he terrified her beyond belief.

But, Arya knew it was time to leave when the slobbering sellsword Vargo Hoat had been left in command of the old castle. She knew his cruelty well, and a change of command would provide an excellent opportunity to get away. She’d killed a man, and injured a dozen more in her bid for freedom, but her only regret was that she did not bring more to safety. There was only time for two others; Gendry and Hot Pie.

Gendry pulled up next to her on his horse. He was a tall youth, with long dark hair and deep blue eyes. He was strongly muscled from all his time at the forge, and Arya felt a fluttering feeling in her tummy whenever her eyes fell upon his strong chest. Arya sometimes thought that Gendry looked a bit like King Robert, but that was silly. Gendry wasn’t related to the King, how could he be?

“Where are we going, Arya?” Gendry asked, sounding exhausted.

“I don’t know, how often do I have to tell you?” Arya snapped back, “We need to get away from Harrenhal before we do anything else.”

“Why? They won’t be sending people after us.” Gendry replied, raising a dark eyebrow, “It’s not like we’re important or anything.”

Arya didn’t reply to that for a moment, because he made a good point. Apart from anything else, she just wanted to get the horrible castle and its inhabitants as far away from her as possible. There were too many bad memories associated with that place, of Weese and the Tickler and all the other Brave Companions. As much as Lord Bolton had not harmed her, she was still glad that she didn’t have to see his pale, scary eyes anymore.

“They just might.” was all Arya could say, even though it seemed childish.

Gendry looked like he was going to disagree, but a moan of sadness was heard before he could. Arya turned to look at the third member of her party. Hot Pie was a fat boy from King’s Landing who had tried to join up with the Night’s Watch. Arya thought that it was stupid of him, because he was a craven and was useless with a sword. The only thing he was good for was making pies, which, to his credit, he was pretty good at.

“I’m _hungry!_ ” Hot Pie moaned, and Arya held back a groan of annoyance.

“All you’ve done on the way from Harrenhal is be hungry,” she snapped, “Didn’t you think to bring more food?”

“I didn’t know we were going to be leaving, did I?” he replied grumpily, “If I had, I would have packed. Then we wouldn’t all be hungry now.”

“I’m not hungry.” Arya declared, even though it was a lie. That crawling, empty feeling filled her belly instead of food, and she was almost falling asleep on her horse.

Gendry saw right through her lie. “The next village we come to, we’ll stop and get some food, and maybe some rest too.” he said firmly, and for once Arya didn’t disagree.

The unlikely trio of the baker, the blacksmith and the lord’s daughter soon came upon a small village in the middle of the forest. There were around forty small houses, and Arya’s nose filled with the scent of wood-fires. There were very few people out in the village, and Arya had a feeling she knew why. The Riverlands had been the main fighting ground for the so-called War of the Five Kings. Many of these people would have seen first-hand the atrocities committed by the Mountain That Rides, Gregor Clegane.

Arya had only seen him a few times, but those times she had seen him, she’d felt a shiver of fear run down her spine and an aura of brutality issue from him like a foul odour. The Mountain was a huge man with a brutal face and small, stupid, piggy eyes. He was the Hound’s older brother, and was larger too. One of the times Arya had seen him, he’d cleaved a horse’s neck clean in two after losing a tilt against Ser Loras Tyrell.

Arya, Gendry and Hot Pie pulled their horses up alongside a small tavern built from large, roughly cut grey stones. The sign that swung above the door was old and faded, and Arya suspected it had been burned recently too. They walked in tentatively, Arya’s hand ready to pull out the small knife she’d stolen from one of the guards at Harrenhal. They were greeted by a dusty interior, poorly lit by a small fire in the corner. There were a dozen men in the tavern, sparsely spread around it. Arya, Gendry and Hot Pie walked up to the innkeeper.

“Do you have any food?” Arya asked, pretending to be a scared little girl.

“Depends if you have any coin.” the innkeeper replied gruffly. He was a large man , his jerkin too small for his gut. He looked kind enough, with laughter lines around his warm brown eyes, but he was clearly wary of newcomers.

_Not without good reason._

“We have some coin.” Gendry replied. He didn’t tell them where they’d got it, “How much for a room for the night and some hot food?”

The man looked Gendry up and down, scrutinizing the big youth carefully, assessing how much of a threat he was. After a moment, the innkeeper spoke, “Eight silver stags for the food and four for the room.”

 _Do we have that much?_ Arya hadn’t looked in the coinpurse they’d stolen from yet another guard at Harrenhal, but it had felt heavy enough for them to pay their way around. What if it was just coppers?

Thankfully, they had enough coin to pay the innkeeper. He eyed their coin for a moment, before grudgingly letting them take a seat. The travellers sat near a small wispy looking woman and her son, a lanky youth with light brown hair. The group sat in silence for a short while, until it became too much for Arya to bear.

“What is this village called?”

The woman flinched when Arya spoke, and huddled closer to her boy. It was he who spoke up, “We don’t have a name here. Most just call us Harrenhal after the keep.”

Arya nodded, “Have you been raided?”

The boy nodded, “Once or twice. Mostly by Ser Gregor, looking for more food for his men. We used to trade with old Lord Whent, back when he was Lord of Harrenhal, but that was peaceful. The Mountain is not as kind.”

“Was.” Arya blurted, before she could stop herself, “the Northmen hold Harrenhal now.”

The boy shrugged, “It doesn’t matter. The Northmen are just as bad as all the rest, coming to our lands with their armies, taking our food. They say that winter is coming, but we can’t fill our stocks with words.”

Arya wanted to disagree with him, wanted to say that Robb would never dare take any food from anyone if they needed it, but she couldn’t. That would raise questions that she wouldn’t be able to answer. She fumbled for another topic of conversation.

“Has there been any news from the capital?” she asked, “Do you know what’s happening in the war?”

“We don’t know much,” the boy replied, “only what other travellers have told us, but they have brought us news of King’s Landing.”

Arya’s heart thudded against her chest. _Sansa is in King’s Landing,_ she thought. As much as Arya disliked her sister, she couldn’t bear the thought of Sansa alone in the capital surrounded by Lannisters.

But before Arya could say anything else, the innkeeper arrived with their food. Arya’s mouth watered at the sight of the large hunks of meat on her plate; big slices of gammon, lashings of pork and a little mutton. There were some roasted vegetables on the side, and big, bloated potatoes. Arya filled her mouth with food, only then realising her hunger. Thankfully, Gendry took up the questioning.

“You mentioned King’s Landing?” Gendry asked urgently. Arya suddenly felt ashamed. Gendry came from King’s Landing, and she hadn’t even considered him or his parents. All she’d thought about was stupid Sansa.

“Aye,” the boy replied, “We’ve had much news of it. A traveller came through here, less than a week ago, claiming he came from the city. He said that Lord Stannis Baratheon had attacked the city, but his ships were burned on the Blackwater by wildfire. We asked him if Lord Stannis prevailed, but he didn’t seem to know. He didn’t seem to care about anyone. A few days later, another knight came through. He said that Lord Tywin Lannister came and broke Lord Stannis against the walls of King’s Landing. He also said that Lord Mace Tyrell has joined with the Lannisters in their war against the Starks, Greyjoys and Lord Stannis.”

This talk of knights had piqued Arya’s interest. “Who were these knights?”

The boy scratched his head, trying to remember, “I did not know the second knight, and he left soon after delivering his message. But I do remember the first. You don’t forget a man like that.”

“Why not?” although Arya wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

“There aren’t many men that size, are there?” the boy replied, as if that was obvious, which it wasn’t, “He rode up on this great black horse, with blood on his armour. He came in to the tavern and handed over enough gold to buy the place ten times over. Didn’t seem to want anyone to talk to him. Mind you,” the boy added, whispering, “if I looked like that, I’d want to be left alone.”

Arya’s heart sank. She knew exactly who the boy was talking about, and she wasn’t about to go looking for him. The Hound wasn’t exactly the type of person Arya wanted to run into.

 _He killed Mycah._ She remembered sourly. Arya sat in sullen silence for the rest of the conversation as she remembered it. She and Mycah, a butcher’s boy, had been practicing their sword-fighting with sticks by the Trident on the way south from Winterfell. Mycah had scored a particularly good hit on the back of Arya’s hand. Joffrey, then just a prince, had asked Mycah mockingly if he was going to become a knight. Scared, Mycah had not replied. Joffrey had then cut her friend, and Arya hit him with her stick. Joffrey had tried to fight her then, sword against stick. He hadn’t done very well, and Nymeria, Arya’s direwolf, had attacked Joffrey to protect her mistress.

Joffrey had cried then, and Arya had felt very proud of herself. Until the Bitch Queen Cersei had demanded that Nymeria be killed, that is. Arya had to drive her closest friend away, and it was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do. Cersei had raged, and in the end Lady, Sansa’s direwolf, had been killed in Nymeria’s stead. Arya had felt a little bad for Sansa then, but that sorrow was overruled by her betrayal.

 _Sansa lied,_ Arya thought, and the memory still rankled, _she saw exactly what happened, but she sided with Joffrey, instead of me, her own sister._

In that moment, nearly a year ago, Arya had been reminded of the Tully words, their mother’s House. Family, duty, honour. Maybe it was Sansa’s duty to defend her betrothed, but Father had always said it was dishonourable to lie about your family. Sansa and Arya had never gotten along; Sansa was always too perfect for Mother to shut up. But after Mycah’s death, Arya hadn’t spoken to her sister for weeks, except to utter a quiet threat or accusation. Every time Sansa had spoken adoringly of her golden prince, Arya had wanted to punch her in her stupid face.

Arya finished her meal silently, mulling her memories around her head. Gendry and Hot Pie talked animatedly to the boy, and she felt a small glow of pride in their escape then. Up until that point, it hadn’t felt real to Arya. But now they were outside the great black walls of Harrenhal, eating food that filled them up, and talking freely. Those were probably the worst things about Harrenhal.

There was always the feeling of hopelessness that Arya felt when she looked at the massive castle, at least from the inside. There was a sense of futility among the prisoners, as if even together they’d never make it out. Arya always felt so small within the castle, so insignificant. Granted, Harrenhal was in ruins, but it had stood for centuries before her birth, and would stand for centuries after she is laid to rest.

Arya and her friends finished their food quickly, and thanked the youth for his information. They were all exhausted, and needed rest. Having seen that they were no threat, the innkeeper was much more genial in showing them their room. There was a large double bed, which Hot Pie and Gendry slept on. Arya lay on the floor, anxious not to be next to Gendry whilst he was sleeping. She lay on her side, and murmured her prayer.

“Cersei, Joffrey, the Mountain, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn Payne, the Tickler, the Hound.” and then, a phrase she’d heard Jaqen H’gar, the mysterious assassin who travelled with them to Harrenhal, use. “ _Valar Morghulis._ ”

Arya slipped into a vivid dream after that. She dreamt that she was running with her pack.

_The forest was alive with scents and sounds she’d never hear normally, and as she bounded through the trees, her nose tingled with one specific scent. Blood._

_She tore through the leaf litter, scattering all manner of tiny creatures in her path. Her pack tried desperately to keep up, but they soon fell behind. Soon, she came upon the bloated corpse of a knight. His eyes were wide with fear, and his neck was caked in thick, dark, dry blood. She leaned in to take a bite..._

... And Arya woke as a mailed fist surrounded her mouth, muffling her cry of shock. She looked up, and her eyes widened. Arya Stark looked into the eyes of Sandor Clegane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	6. Robb I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wolf tastes victory once again, but learns of the Rose's Treachery and the Kraken's Masterstroke.

ROBB

Night fell slowly over the Rock or so Robb thought. He and his men had been camped outside the huge fortress that was Casterly Rock for three weeks now, three weeks to conceal their ruse. Robb prayed every waking moment that Tywin Lannister didn’t turn his men around and march on them. But, for once it seemed that the gods were kind.

The army of the North had arrived at Casterly Rock in high spirits. Lord Reed had counselled Robb against sending the crannogmen in as soon as they had arrived.

“If we take the castle too quickly we run the risk of Tywin turning,” the Lord of Greywater Watch had said, “Send us in after dusk after a few weeks.”

And Robb had done so. The crannogmen were a small people, all thin and duck-footed. They were often mistrusted, and more often mistreated, due to their apparently craven ways of fighting. Robb remembered a conversation he’d had with the Greatjon on the ride from Riverrun to Casterly Rock.

“I thought you had more sense, boy,” the Greatjon had grumbled, “no good ever comes of trusting the bog devils.”

“My father never had any reason to distrust Lord Howland, and neither do I.” Robb replied coolly.

That caused the Greatjon to frown, “Your ancestors fought many wars with the Marsh Kings of old.”

“My ancestor also fought with the Umber kings. Would you have me lock you in a cell until we returned to the North?”

Thereafter the Greatjon had gone red with embarrassment every time he spoke to Howland Reed. Robb was rather proud of this, in a strange way. Once again, he’d cowed the mighty Greatjon.

It was three hours since Robb had sent Howland Reed into the bowels of the Rock to deliver him the castle. In that time, he had pored over maps and debated his next move. _Those fucking Ironborn._ The raven from Winterfell had arrived not one day after Robb had first laid siege to Casterly Rock. It was written by Theon Greyjoy, the man who Robb thought was his friend, no, his _brother_ ;

_To Robb Stark, Once King in the North._

_I, Theon Greyjoy, write to tell you we have taken Winterfell. We achieved this feat with thirty men, and now hold your brothers hostage. My father is now King in the North, and there is nothing you can do to take back your home._

_Your father slew my brothers in one war. Be grateful that I am not so savage._

_Yours,_

_Theon Greyjoy, Prince of Winterfell._

Robb had never felt so much blind anger in his life. He burned the letter and hacked apart a tree in rage. _It’s not fair._ First his father was killed by a mad bastard, his sisters held prisoner. Then he had been betrayed by his most trusted friend and ally. And now his home was lost. Robb remembered how he thought of Winterfell as a boy; impregnable, a fortress that would last forever, always reminding Westeros of House Stark long after he was gone.

No more.

Now, when people thought of him, they would see him as a failure, a King so incompetent he couldn’t even hold his own castle.  _A King Who Lost the North._

 _I’ll tear his balls off. I’ll cut off his cock and feed it to Grey Wind. I will make his dying last a year if I have to._ Robb’s thoughts were still on vengeance when he sent Howland into the castle. They were still on it now.

A young man entered Robb’s tent, his halfhelm spattered with blood. He was short and lithe, and carried a long spear. Robb recognised the leaping bullfrog on his surcoat. This was Rickon Oakwood, Howland Reed’s sworn sword.

“Your Grace,” he said breathlessly, “Lord Howland has delivered Casterly Rock. The Westerlands are ours!”

A half-smile flitted across Robb’s face, but it was gone soon after, “We’ll celebrate when we’ve won our war and taken back Winterfell. The war goes on, ser. But for now, we should rest up. How much was left by Lord Tywin when he went to his war?”

“Not much, Your Grace,” Ser Rickon replied, “but there is enough for our men to eat tonight.”

Robb nodded, “Tell the men to go to the barracks. We’ll rest up tonight, and march again on the morrow. Tell my war council to meet with me in the great hall to discuss our next move.”

Ser Rickon nodded, and left the tent. Robb followed him after a while, and told his squire, Olyvar Frey to saddle his horse. Robb then rode into the great keep of Casterly Rock. He remembered being a boy and hearing stories of the Rock from his father. He remembered the tale of trickery as to how the Lannisters acquired the great castle.

During the Age of Heroes, Lann the Clever – the first Lannister – snuck into the castle in the dead of night. He slit the throats of all the Casterlys – those who ruled the castle before – and declared himself King of the Rock. And, for ten thousand years, the Lannisters had held Casterly Rock. No longer.

Robb rode into the square right in the centre of the keep and trotted around it several times. Casterly Rock was underwhelming, if Robb was being perfectly honest. The walls were not as high as he’d imagined, the tapestries not as rich, the buildings not as fine.

Robb strode into the great hall of Casterly Rock, and looked around. Unlike the hall in Winterfell where he and his ancestors had received guests and petitioners, Casterly Rock’s hall was lavishly decorated. At the very back, on a raised stage, was a throne of gold with two lions leaping off of the top. Howland Reed was seated on a smaller wooden chair next to it.

Robb walked up to the throne nervously. He realised that this was the first real castle he had taken, his first proper victory. He’d snatched the Westerlands right from under Tywin Lannister’s nose. Lord Reed motioned for Robb to sit upon the throne.

The King in the North sat in the chair that had been held by his sworn enemies for thousands of years. _This is what Theon felt,_ he thought bitterly, _this must be what he felt when he took Winterfell._

“How many did we lose?”

“Thirty seven, Your Grace,” Lord Reed replied, “With more than eighty of them slain.”

Robb nodded. “Bring in the castellan.”

An old crannogman nodded and pulled forward a bloodied knight in red-gold armour. The man was stout and limping. He pulled off his helmet to reveal a round head with thinning blond hair. He pulled free of the crannogman and stood before Robb.

“And who are you?”

The knight glared defiantly at Robb, “I am Ser Kevan Lannister, brother to Lord Tywin.”

“I apologise if any of my men mistreated yours, Ser Kevan,” Robb replied, “How much do you have in the way of supplies?”

“Little. Tywin took as much as he could with him.”

“And gold?”

Kevan didn’t answer for a second. Robb was just about to motion to the Greatjon for him to be taken away when he finally spoke, “Our mines are dry. Tywin wanted to keep it a secret, but I suppose it won’t take you long to find out. The last ounce of Lannister gold was mined three years ago.”

Robb sat in stunned silence for a second. Then, without warning, he doubled up with a raucous laugh. Kevan looked blankly at the Greatjon and Howland Reed, but that only made Robb laugh harder.

“Alright, alright,” Robb said, after a moment, “So you mean to tell me that you can’t buy your way out of anything any longer?” he stood, and walked over to Ser Kevan. The Lannister man flinched ever so slightly. Robb spat on the ground, “That Lannister name of yours means less and less every day, doesn’t it? Where is your maester?”

“Our what?”

“Maester. Where is he?”

“The highest tower.”

Robb nodded, “Bring your maester down here, and get him a quill, a deal of parchment and some ink. I have a message to send.”

Kevan hesitated, but Robb glared at him until he strode away. The Young Wolf looked to Galbart Glover, the Lord of Deepwood Motte.

“Lord Glover, come forth,” he did so, “You have served me well in this war, and have given me wise council, have you not?”

“I have, Your Grace.”

“But you don’t really have the stomach for war, do you?”

Glover looked uncomfortable, “I will serve my King any way he needs me to. But yes, you are right. I wasn’t made to fight wars.”

Robb nodded again, “The Westerlands have been loyal to House Lannister for as long as anyone can remember. If we leave without leaving anyone to enforce our rule, we may as well have never come to Casterly Rock. Kneel.”

Glover knelt, bowing his shaggy head. Robb stepped forward before speaking again, “I, King Robb, of the House Stark, First of My Name, Lord of Winterfell, King in the North, the Trident and the Rock and Lord of the First Men, name you, Galbart of the House Glover, Castellan of Casterly Rock and Acting Warden of the West until this war is done.” The words were met with utter silence, “On the morrow, I will ride to King’s Landing with my army, and you will remain here with a garrison of five hundred men and all of our prisoners. You will hold this castle until this war is done.”

Lord Galbart Glover nodded, shocked, “A-aye, Your Grace.”

Before anything else could be said, Ser Kevan Lannister entered the great hall, followed by a spindly old man with a great shock of white hair. The maester carried several rolls of parchment and a large pot of ink. He sat down in front of a desk and prepared his quill.

“Maester. I need you to write this message for every lord in Westeros.”

The maester’s eyes went wide, “ _Every_ lord, Your Grace?”

“You heard me. Every single person in Westeros will know of what I have done. Every peasant and every high lord, every septon and every sinner, every grain of Sand and every flake of Snow will know that I have taken Casterly Rock. Write down exactly what I say.”

Thus, Robb told the lords of Westeros who he was, how he was king of not one, not two, but three of Seven Kingdoms. He ordered the Lords of the Westerlands to swear fealty to him, and told the rest that they need not live in fear of Tywin Lannister any longer.

He sent a direct message to Tywin himself. Looking back on it, it was probably rather mocking, but Robb didn’t care. He was drunk on his victory, and all of Westeros needed to know that Tywin was not unstoppable. Not anymore.

Robb also told him to send another raven to King’s Landing, to Stannis Baratheon.

“Offer Stannis the hand of friendship. He knows that he cannot take Westeros alone. We have a common goal, and together we can break Joffrey’s hold on the Iron Throne.”

The maester nodded, and scribbled away. After the message was written he looked up. “Your Grace, I cannot send this to King’s Landing.”

Robb frowned, “Why not? That is where Stannis is, isn’t he?”

The maester shook his head solemnly, “Lord Stannis was broken upon the Blackwater by joint Lannister and Tyrell forces. He has gone to Dragonstone.”

Robb’s jaw clenched, “Then send it to Dragonstone. Quickly!”

Nodding frantically, the maester hurried off to send his ravens. Robb gestured for the room to clear. “Not you, Lord Howland. You stay.”

Howland Reed bowed his long, thin head and stood quietly. Robb stood up, paced around the room for a short while and slammed his hand on the maester’s desk, upsetting a bowl of ink. “Fucking cunts!” the King in the North bellowed, “Mace fucking Tyrell, I should have known. First sign of trouble he runs straight back to Tywin. If it wasn’t for him, Stannis Baratheon would be sitting on the Iron Throne, and I would be going home and taking revenge on the Ironborn.”

“Your Grace,” Howland said, “with all due respect, Stannis will not allow the North to leave the Seven Kingdoms.”

Robb’s ice-blue eyes blazed with cold fury, “I hold more land than any other man in the world. I can raise more men than all the other Kingdoms combined. Stannis Baratheon is the lord of one rock in the Narrow Sea. He can’t march against Griffin’s Roost, let alone Winterfell. When I take King’s Landing – which I will – I’ll execute the Lannisters and leave the Seven Kingdoms for good. I don’t give a shit as to who sits the Iron Throne.”

“What if you sat it?” Howland Reed’s question was barely a whisper, yet the weight it carried was immense.

Robb considered Howland’s proposal for a moment, “I couldn’t. I don’t know how to rule over Westeros.”

“You’d have advisors. Trustworthy men who would guide you every step of the way.”

“The Lords of the North made me King to prevent them being ruled from the south. If I take the throne then I’ll be dishonouring them.” Robb argued, although the prospect did entice him. _With all of Westeros at my command, I could do anything I wanted._ “I’ll ask you one thing, Lord Reed, one thing only. When my father took King’s Landing from Mad Aerys, he didn’t take the throne for himself. He left it for Robert, who was in the Riverlands at the time. Why?”

A half-smile played on Lord Reed’s lips, “He was a good man, your father. Content with his lot. He was Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. He’d married one of the most beautiful women in Westeros, if not the world, and his best friend was about to become King. But above all, he was an honourable man. He knew the throne did not belong to him. It was Robert’s, by blood, and so Lord Eddard did not - could not - climb the steps when perhaps he should have.”

Robb nodded, satisfied, “Then there is your answer, Howland. I have no more claim to the throne than Joffrey. If I want to be half the man my father was, then I cannot steal a throne I have no right to. Thank you for your counsel.”

Lord Howland Reed bowed, before walking towards the door, “What made you choose Lord Glover as Acting Warden of the West?”

“He’s a good man.”

“What was the real reason?”

Robb sighed, “He hates the fighting, I can see it in his eyes. He would have stayed in Deepwood if he had had the choice. And now his home is gone, his family likely dead. This is my repayment for his duty. The Lannisters aren’t the only ones who pay their debts.”

Howland smiled, and strode out the door, leaving Robb to think on his next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	7. Davos I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Flaming Stag recieves a letter. A letter that changes the way this game is played.

DAVOS

The cells in Dragonstone were cold. They were dank, and they were grimy. But, compared to a rock in the middle of Blackwater Bay, they were heaven for Ser Davos Seaworth. He’d done little wrong other than trying to do his duty to his King, Stannis Baratheon. Davos had tried to kill the witch Melisandre, to break the spell she had over the King.

Now his world was four feet square, his meals consisted of dirty gruel and dirtier water. The only company aside from his gaolers was the young Princess Shireen Baratheon. She was secretly teaching him to read, and he was grateful for it.

He didn’t know how long he had been here for – there was no daylight in the cell – but it was certainly a long time. Davos began to worry. What if Stannis had died, had lost the war? Who would let him out? Would he be left here, to rot for all time?

Then, all of a sudden, one morning – was it morning? – his cell door opened and his King stood there. Stannis didn’t have the powerful stature of his brother Robert, nor the comely looks of young Renly. He was dour and sallow, but gave of an aura of power Davos had rarely felt before.

 _Men who never smile are all the same_ , Davos thought to himself. They said Tywin Lannister never smiled, and Ned Stark was well known for his stoic manner.

“Your Grace!” Davos stumbled to one knee, silently cursing the cramp in his legs.

“Get up,” Stannis snapped, “I have business to discuss with you.”

Confused, Davos followed his King to his solar. Stannis sat down next to the legendary table built by Aegon the Conqueror. It was a huge map of Westeros, but each mountain was detailed in relief, every river, every forest. He indicated a scroll of parchment.

“Read it.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Davos started, “But I don’t know –”

“Don’t lie to me,” Stannis replied curtly, “I know my daughter’s been teaching you. I’m not a fool. Read the letter.”

Davos picked it up, and read it through, his eyes widening with every passing word.

_To King Stannis Baratheon, First of his Name, King in the Narrow Sea, Rightful King of the Andals and the Rhoynar,_

_I write to tell you that I have taken Casterly Rock. The West now marches against the Iron Throne, and the Lannisters have lost their seat. I write this letter to extend an alliance to you. You and I both know that it is well-nigh impossible to take King’s Landing alone, but I believe that we have the same goal, and you have knowledge of the city that none of my commanders ever will. Even now I send envoys to the Ironborn so that we may have their ships._

_I implore you, man to man, to aid us in our attack on King’s Landing. I offer the hand of my brother, Brandon Stark, to your daughter and heir in good faith. You have less than five thousand men in your army, and you cannot fight all of Westeros on your own. I ride with over seventy-five thousand men, and more will join our cause when they hear of my victory._

_Yours in good faith,_

_Robb Stark, King in the North, the Riverlands and of the Rock, Lord of Winterfell and Lord of the First Men_

Below the words was the image of a direwolf.

“Well?” Stannis said, “What do you think?”

Davos thought for a moment, “The Stark boy makes some good points. And he has eliminated Casterly Rock. We can only assume that the Lords of the West will rally around him, and many others besides.”

“And the alliance?”

“Again, a good idea, Your Grace. I suppose you don’t approve?”

Stannis snorted indignantly, “Robb Stark has command of over half of the kingdom, _my_ kingdom. If he wins me the Iron Throne, then I will be in the Stark’s debt for the rest of my life. The Iron Throne will exchange Winterfell for Casterly Rock. No. I will not do it.”

A sea of anger rose in Davos’ heart, “What will you do then?” he snapped, “Wallow here with no-one but the red witch for company? How will you win your Kingdom with no allies? Your brother had the right of it. A man without friends is a man without power. Your bannermen have deserted you twice now, and Robb Stark is handing the Seven Kingdoms up on a silver platter.”

“Seven?” Stannis roared, “Seven? He offers me the Stormlands, Reach and Dorne. He and Balon Greyjoy will take the rest, may R’hllor damn them both.”

“Three Kingdoms are better than none,” Davos argued, “Will you really let Robb Stark die and lose this war of yours just because you didn’t have the humility to accept someone else’s help?”

Stannis was silent for a moment, his eyes pits of hard ice. Davos suddenly feared that he had gone too far, that Stannis would cut off his head this time instead of a few fingers.  For a moment longer, the King was silent. Then, he spoke.

“Kneel, Ser Davos.”

Davos knelt, and Stannis reached for his sword, the legendary Lightbringer, the sword that Azor Ahai himself fought with in the Long Night. Davos bowed his head, and a little voice in the back of his mind wondered why Stannis would kill him here, and not outside for all to see. For that matter, where was the Red Woman with her flames?

Davos stopped thinking when he felt Stannis’ sword upon his shoulders. “I, Stannis, of the House Baratheon, First of my Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, do name you, Davos, of the House Seaworth, Hand of the King.”

Davos’ mind went blank. He stood numbly, and watched as Stannis sheathed the mighty sword. “Your – Your Grace, I –”

“You are right, _Lord_ Davos,” Stannis said softly, “Perhaps I was a little too quick to anger at the Young Wolf’s letter.” The King in the Narrow Sea stood, and strode slowly to the window, and looked out across the sea, “Would he bend the knee?”

For the first time since they’d met, Davos saw that Stannis was worried. He’d come too far to lose this war, and there was no way to win it without Robb Stark, “Mayhaps, Your Grace, but the Lords of the North would not. They have not forgotten the days when the North was ruled by the Starks, and the Starks alone. They say that they knelt to the dragon, not the stag. Something tells me the only thing that prevented the North’s secession from the Iron Throne sixteen years ago was the friendship between Ned Stark and your brother.”

Stannis nodded, “Aye. And what of Balon Greyjoy? It seems we have found something even Robert could not break. You know the Ironborn better than anyone in this castle. What would Balon Greyjoy do if I sat the Iron Throne?”

“Raid. Rape. Plunder.” Davos didn’t even need to hesitate, “That is the Old Way, and it is the only way Balon Greyjoy will live. Make a peace with him, a peace that makes him more than lord of half a dozen stones in the Sunset Sea.”

“Thank you for your counsel, Lord Hand,” Stannis said after a moment, “Tell my remaining bannermen the news. Tell them that I mean to join with Robb Stark. I must speak with my daughter.”

Davos nodded, and exited the solar. As he walked through the dark halls of Dragonstone, his heart pounded in his throat. _Lord Hand!_ It seemed like only a day ago when he was little more than a smuggler, living off his meagre profits in Flea Bottom. Now, he was Stannis Baratheon’s greatest advisor. He thanked the gods for giving him the chance to save his King from the Red Woman.

As if summoned by his very thoughts, Melisandre of Asshai walked out from a room on Davos’ right. The red priestess was seen by many as a great beauty. Her flowing red hair seemed to glow in the candlelight, and her skin was pale and without imperfection. Her eyes seemed to give off a faint red glow in the half-light, although Davos might have imagined that. She did not seem perturbed to see him, surprising since Davos had tried to kill her the last time they met.

Melisandre gave a sickeningly sweet smile, “My Lord Hand,” she said, her accent heavy but not impeding her speech, “I trust that you are well?”

“I have been better, my Lady.” Davos replied curtly. He had little patience for the priestess today.

“My King has suffered a great defeat,” Melisandre smiled at the words, “But the Lord’s Chosen has not surrendered. Why is that, do you wonder?”

Davos sighed. He wasn’t going to get out of this conversation, “He believes that he is the true heir of his brother.”

“No.” Melisandre corrected him, “It is because he still has work to do.”

“And whose work is that?” Davos growled, growing angry as he did so, “Yours, or the Lord of Light’s?”

Davos took a little satisfaction when Melisandre stepped back in shock. She quickly recovered herself, but Davos could see that he had ruffled her, “I am but a servant of the Lord. I do his bidding on this mortal realm. The Lord has revealed his purpose to me; to serve Stannis as I serve Him.”

Unhappy with her words, Davos lapsed into silence. He nodded to the Red Woman, and took his leave. _Gods,_ he said to himself, _if only I could get rid of her._ Davos almost dared to hope that Stannis would be grievously injured as a result of one of her prophecies. She’d be sent away then, and Davos wouldn’t have to worry about her corrupting his King’s mind with her poisonous and heretical lies.

The great hall of Dragonstone was one of the largest in Westeros, surpassed only by the ones at Harrenhal and Storm’s End. It was filled with all the lords and knights of Stannis’ army. There were fewer than two hundred men in the hall.

“My Lords!” Davos cried, trying to make himself heard over the chatter, “ _My Lords!!!_ ” The hubbub slowly subsided, as every face turned to look at him stood high above them. “Our King has received a raven from Casterly Rock. Robb Stark has taken the Westerlands from the Lannisters. He extended an offer to us. We will join him in his assault on King’s Landing in less than a moon’s turn.”

“Why has he told you?” the question came from Ser Axell Florent, the Queen’s uncle. A homely man, by every account, vain and cruel and stupid too. Rumours had spread the army before the battle that he called himself the Queen’s Hand in private. There were more vicious rumours about him, of course, but Davos did not think that they were necessary to focus on.

“I am his Hand. I am privy to knowledge the King wouldn’t ever tell you, Ser Florent.”

Perhaps the remark was venomous, but Davos was tired of being talked down to by men like Axell Florent.

Ser Florent went purple, “ _Hand?_ Is Stannis insane?”

A huge knight with a tulip on his breast stood and glared at Ser Florent, “That’s yer King yer talkin’ about.” he snarled, “And that’s the man he’s chosen to be Hand. It’s not yer place to comment.”

 “Have a care how you speak!” Axell roared back, “I am the Queen’s uncle.”

“Who gives a fuck?” the large knight snapped, “You could be Aegon the Conqueror for all I care. His Grace has chosen Lord Seaworth to be his hand. Have you ever known him to be unreasonable? Lord Seaworth has risen to his position on merit, not birth. He’s a better man than you.” the knight looked to Davos, “I’ll fight under you, even if no-one else will.”

“I thank you, Ser…”

“Storm. Ser Meryn Storm.”

Davos nodded. Then he spoke to the assembled lords, “Gather your men. Tell them we leave for King’s Landing in a week. Tell them to rest up, to clean their swords and to prepare their hearts. We finally have the power to win this war, and gods damn us if we don’t!”

The hall filled with triumphant bellows, with only a few staying silent, Ser Axell. Davos felt a glow of pride. _Smuggler no more,_ he thought gleefully, _I’m a true lord now, one of their own. I’ll get back to you Marya. You see if I don’t._

Davos retired to his rooms, far more comfortable than what he was used to, and a welcome change to the dungeons. He found a fresh set of robes, which he scorned for a practical pair of trousers and a leather jerkin. He found an excellent pair of boots that fit snugly, and he had a sneaking suspicion that Stannis had been planning his elevation for a while.

A short time later, Davos heard a knock at his door.

“Come in.”

It was Ser Meryn Storm, the large knight who came to Davos’ aid. He truly was a giant; near seven feet tall, with arms that could crush Davos like a grape. His face was homely, but Davos saw a kindliness in his eyes that was unmistakeable. Davos scrabbled through his mind, trying to remember Ser Meryn’s story.

He was a bastard of course, and Davos would have guessed one of Robert’s had Ser Meryn been younger. He had the Baratheon look; a strong jaw and bright blue eyes. Perhaps Lord Steffon Baratheon, Stannis’ father. His sigil was a purple tulip on a field of green.

“Ser Meryn. I thank you for your support earlier.”

Meryn laughed easily, “It is nothing, my Lord Hand. I understand how it feels to be looked down upon for no good reason.”

Davos nodded slowly, before looking at the knight, “You’re unsure.” the knight hesitated, “It is fine, ser. Last time we fought at the Blackwater, we were slaughtered. But we were alone then, and they were well prepared. Now, we have allied ourselves with the strongest House in Westeros.”

“Will you fight, Lord Davos?”

“Aye.”

The large knight knelt, and even then was near as tall as Davos. He drew his sword, “Then I take it as my duty to protect you. My sword is yours, in victory and defeat. Now and always.”

Davos felt unsure. He’d never had a sworn sword before. He fought through the fog that obscured his thoughts, and remembered what a lord _should_ say when a man swore himself to his lord, “Now and always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	8. Sansa I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the city of corruption, the Little Bird learns the price of the Lion's victory.

SANSA

The warm autumn sun shone through the drapes of Sansa’s chambers. The day was still young, yet the young woman sat at her table, dark rings around her azure eyes. Once she liked to think that she was beautiful. Mayhaps she still was, but she hated herself now. She hated her looks, she hated her mind, she hated her heart most of all.

Just last week, she’d been freed from the betrothal that bound her to that monster Joffrey. All she could feel was remorse though; Remorse for poor Margaery, Margaery who would have to spend the rest of her days with the Boy King.

When she was a girl, Sansa always dreamed of living in the south with the knights she’d heard stories about, where every prince and lordling was a great hero, where ladies were all beautiful and happily married.

Not anymore.

Sansa cursed her idiocy, cursed her naiveté, cursed herself for believing in stupid stories. All the knights of legend were long dead, replaced by oathbreakers and rapists and murderers. The princes were cruel and the lordlings were stupid. And the ladies were as snide as they were beautiful and cunning as well.

Sansa heard a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” she called.

Sansa’s handmaid, an attractive Lyseni woman named Shae, entered. She looked despairingly at Sansa and the uneaten plate of food that lay before her.

“Is my lady not hungry?” Shae sighed, “You have to eat something.”

“I don’t want to.” Sansa replied stoutly.

“You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to.” Sansa snapped, rather harshly. “I don’t want to eat, I don’t want to feel better, I don’t want to _live_ anymore!”

Silence fell for a few moments. Shae sighed morosely, and came to sit down next to Sansa, putting her arm around the young lady who’d seen too much. “You should be happy; you’re no longer tied to that cunt Joffrey. You’ll be able to go back north soon.”

“No I won’t.” Sansa replied, “Robb’s never going to beat Lord Tywin.”

Shae leaned in and whispered in Sansa’s ear, “Haven’t you heard? Your brother has taken Casterly Rock from the Lannisters.”

“No. You’re lying!”

“Sansa –”

“The Queen sent you, didn’t she? Sent you to find out what I would do if I heard.” Sansa’s voice was shrill with anger, shrill with fear, “Tell her I don’t want Robb to win! Please, tell her to leave me alone!”

This outburst knocked Shae into a stunned silence. After a moment, the handmaid smirked proudly, “You’re learning.”

“What?”

“I once told you not to trust anyone.” Shae replied, “You’re a fast learner. But I’m not from the Queen. I’d never betray the ones I love.”

Sansa stayed silent. “I don’t want to talk about it. Because If I do, I’ll only hope, and then I’ll be disappointed.”

Shae nodded. “Very well.”

Before they could carry on, there was a knock on the door. Shae went over to open it, and Tyrion Lannister entered. Despite his ugliness, Sansa had grown to respect the Imp. Out of all the Lannisters, he was the kindest. He wasn’t beautiful like Cersei, or good with a sword like Jaime, or cold and cruel like Tywin. He was clever, but his arrogance was quieter, more restrained. The Imp seemed to understand her, in a way no one else really did.

“My lady.” Tyrion’s voice was soft, his mismatched eyes deep pits of sadness, “I have grave news.”

 _Robb?_ “What – what has happened, Lord Tyrion? Is it my brother?” Sansa tried to keep the worry out of her voice.

“No.” Tyrion looked to Shae, “Sansa and I will need some private if you please.”

Shae stood her ground, “Anything you tell her you can tell me.”

_She shouldn’t talk to him like that. She’s only a handmaiden._

Hurt flashed across Tyrion’s face, but he nodded nonetheless, “Very well. Lady Sansa, I have come to tell you that the Hand has decided to find you a husband.”

“Find me a husband?” Sansa’s mind went blank, “But who would want to marry a traitor’s daughter?”

Tyrion didn’t speak. Instead, he poured himself a cup of wine from one of Sansa’s tables. She didn’t dare touch the stuff, not after she’d come to King’s Landing anyway. “Sansa, you must understand your own importance. If your brother is slain in battle, then you become Lady of the North.”

“But Bran and Rickon –”

“Are in the custody of Theon Greyjoy. Besides, Rickon is little more than a babe, and Brandon is a cripple. Trust me when I say that no lord will rally to a cripple’s cause, not even if that cripple is a Stark,” Tyrion sighed heavily, “You may be the daughter of a traitor, but you are still a Stark. One of the last Starks. The North has bowed to your family since time immemorial. You are quite possibly the most important girl in King’s Landing. My father knows this well, he knows he cannot rule the North from King’s Landing, and he knows that the northmen will never bend the knee to a Lannister. And so, it seems to him that it is his duty to marry you off to a husband who will be loyal to his – to _my_ – House.”

 _No. Please gods, please don’t let this happen to me!_ “And who will that be, Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion Lannister’s eyes looked up at her, sadder than ever, “I think you know the answer to that, Sansa. I am truly sorry. I know that you do not want this –”

_No, no, no, please no!!!_

“I would be honoured, Lord Tyrion.” Sansa replied sharply, resisting the urge to vomit, “When will we be married?”

_Never! Please say never, please!_

Tyrion blinked in surprise, but then composed himself, “The High Septon has decreed that no marriages will take place in this time of war. We must wait for the peace.”

“And what if Robb wins?”

“Then you will be a lucky lady indeed.” Tyrion answered darkly, “You’ll never have a twisted creature like me between your legs.”

Sansa nodded, and bade Tyrion leave the room. Shae too left, anger blazing in her eyes, although Sansa did not quite know why. Her disgust at the news made her stomach roil more than ever, and she flung her food across the room in despair. _Why me?_ she wanted to shout, _What did I ever do?_

Sansa crawled onto her bed and balled herself up, beginning to cry softly. She hadn’t cried for a long time, not since her father had died. She’d cried for days then, prayed too. But even that much crying couldn’t vent her emotion, and even that much praying couldn’t fill the hole left in her heart.

Sansa left her room half an hour later, having composed herself. She couldn’t be seen to have been crying, that wouldn’t do. Joffrey was due to hold court soon, and Sansa rushed from her chambers. Once again, she needed to be seen there. It was likely that Joffrey would announce her betrothal to the Imp publically, to shame her and to embarrass him.

She slowed as she neared the throne room, and smoothed her dress. She wore a lovely rose-coloured one, one of her favourites. She stepped into the throne room.

It never failed to impress her. The throne room was eighty feet high and nearly two hundred long. Seven stone pillars stood on either side, holding the massive roof up. And there, in the centre, was the Iron Throne itself. Forged by Balerion the Black Dread, sat upon by half a hundred kings and coveted by nearly every high lord of the realm. It was a monstrous thing, thirty feet high with jagged blades twisting out at every angle.

The boy King Joffrey looked tiny, fidgeting in a chair built for a grown man with silver hair. Joffrey held court for three hours that day, and Sansa learned much and more about the Lannister’s goals. First, Joffrey announced that Lord Tywin would be conscripting almost every able-bodied man in the capital to aid in its defence. Ravens had been sent to Highgarden – where Lord Mace Tyrell’s forces remained – to order them to retake Casterly Rock from the northmen. Second, the King announced his mother’s engagement to Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. Sansa noticed with a small glow of satisfaction that the Queen Regent’s face darkened at the news. Near midday, just as she thought she’d escaped his torments, Joffrey broke the news to the court.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the court, I have an important announcement to make,” Joffrey said, smirking coldly, “It seems that my uncle has rather a taste for young pretty things.” a laugh went around the court, and Sansa noticed Tyrion redden, and remembered his reputation for a familiarity with whores, “He has recently agreed to a betrothal between himself and Lady Sansa Stark.”

The laughter that rolled around the court turned Sansa’s stomach. How could people be so cruel? In another life she would be the Queen, and they’d all be begging for her favour like they did Margaery. But instead here she was; traitor’s daughter, pretender’s sister, monster’s wife.

_Don’t let them see. Don’t show them your tears. Keep your lady’s face, and perhaps this will be over all the sooner._

Joffrey raised a hand for silence, “As you know, the High Septon has told me the gods will not accept any marriages until this ungodly war is over. Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion will be married on the same day as I join my betrothed, the Lady Margaery.”

With that, Joffrey bade the court leave. As was custom, Sansa had to stay and thank the King for agreeing to her marriage. Normally it was her father she would have thanked, but that was impossible now. She walked slowly to the foot of the Iron Throne, and knelt.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and looked up to see Joffrey’s smug face.

“Come now, Lady Sansa,” he said, still smirking, “No need for such formality among family, is there?”

“No. No, Your Grace.” Sansa replied quietly. She caught Tyrion’s eye, and he looked away sharply. _He wants me,_ she thought, _even if he won’t admit it._

Joffrey smiled, “Haven’t you something to say?”

“Thank you. Thank you, Your Grace. I pledge to be a good and honourable wife to Lord Tyrion, for the rest of my days.” Sansa tried not to be sick at the words she said. _May I live as short a life as the gods will grant._

Joffrey nodded, “You sound sad, Lady Sansa. You should rejoice. The wedding day will be sung about for thousands of years to come. Three great families joining together in one.” he paused, and a lecherous grin crossed his face, “They say you northmen still practice the first night. It would be wrong of a King to not observe the traditions of his subjects, wouldn’t you say?”

 _They aren’t your subjects anymore._ “I – I don’t know, Your Grace.”

“Something to think about.” Joffrey smirked, before swaggering away. Sansa bowed and walked out of the throne room.

 _Two monsters in one night,_ Sansa thought, _what did I do, gods? What did I do to merit such a punishment?_

As she left the throne room, she noticed Lord Petyr Baelish standing by the door. Sansa had grown to know Lord Baelish reasonably well during her time at King’s Landing. He always seemed well-meaning, but she’d heard tales of his deceits. He was not a big man, slight and short, but he radiated power nonetheless. Not the physical power of King Robert, nor the frightening power of Tywin Lannister. Lord Baelish exuded a sense of secrecy, as though there was always something he knew about yourself that even you didn’t know yet.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet, “I trust you are well?”

“Well enough, Lord Baelish.”

He smiled softly, “Call me Petyr. It must have come as quite a shock for you, hearing that you were going to be married to the Imp.”

“Yes, you could say that. But Lord Tyrion _was_ kind to me, when no-one else seemed to care.” Sansa replied, “I’d rather marry him than –”

“Not so loud, my dear,” Petyr shushed her, “the Spider has eyes everywhere.”

“So do you.” Sansa pointed out reproachfully.

Petyr smiled enigmatically at that, “Ah, but my eyes are on your side. My eyes don’t reach the Queen’s ears. Not all of them, at any rate.”

They walked in silence for a while, out into the gardens. The Red Keep was a beautiful place, Sansa had to admit. Hundreds of incredibly vibrant flowers bloomed in intricate arrangements. Amidst such colour, it was easy for Sansa to forget her own words.

 _Winter_ is _coming though,_ she thought, _and the Lion is a creature of the summer._

“I suspect you are not safe here in King’s Landing anymore,” Baelish said softly, “I have reason to believe that Cersei wants you dead.”

“She can’t,” Sansa replied quickly, “I mean, she wouldn’t, would she? I – I’m a valuable hostage. At least, I think I am.”

“Shall I tell you something about Cersei Lannister?” Petyr asked, “Cersei Lannister is the worst possible woman to be regent. Oh, she’s powerful, and she’s cunning, but she does not understand her power, and she overestimates her cunning. It’s what comes of being the golden child of a golden family all your life. You never learn when to stop. Cersei Lannister would burn this country for her son, she would slaughter millions to keep her secret, and she would murder you just to spite Robb Stark. Cersei is not evil, no matter what you think about her. She’s just stupid, drunk on her supposed power and surrounded by men who won’t tell her to stop.”

“But Lord Tywin –”

“Lord Tywin does what he can, but until you are safely married to the Imp, you are still in danger. And you can’t marry the Imp until the war is over. Do you think that this is merely a coincidence?” Petyr’s voice never changed, never got louder. Sansa shivered at every word. “The High Septon is another of Cersei’s catspaws. He does as she bids him. The gods have never prevented marriage because of war.”

“But why does Cersei want me dead?”

“Because she always acts out of spite,” Petyr replied, “Robb took her home, the symbol of Lannister power. She’ll want to take something equally precious from him in return.”

_Don’t trust him. They’re all liars here. Thank, but never trust._

Sansa bit her lip, and nodded. “Thank you, Lord Baelish. You are too good to me.”

 “Call it duty to your mother,” Baelish answered, “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it honour, but duty is safe enough. Farewell Sansa.”

“Farewell Lord Baelish.”

Sansa smiled graciously and walked away from him. She didn’t see his smirk…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	9. Catelyn II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trout enters the Kraken's lair, and attempts to stay his wrathful power.

CATELYN

The waves of the Sunset Sea were grey as iron, and stretched on for thousands of leagues. Catelyn had been on it for nearly three days. Three days of stormy weather and choppy waves. Gods, it was terrible.

The ship she was on, _The_ _Father’s Justice_ was a pleasant one, and the captain was a good man, but Catelyn longed to be home, home in Winterfell. That was less than a dream now, of course. Now that Theon Greyjoy, Ned’s ward, Robb’s closest friend, had taken it away from them.

“My lady,” the voice of Ser Patrek Mallister came from behind. Robb had not been wise in his choice of companion. The Mallister’s seat of Seagard was built to defend the Riverlands _against_ Ironborn raiding. Catelyn could almost _hear_ him grinding his teeth. Although mayhaps it wasn’t such a bad decision. If the meeting did go sour, there was no-one better educated in slaying Ironborn. Cat prayed it would not come to that. Ser Patrek was also one of Robb’s personal guard, a not-so-subtle hint at the importance of this mission.

“Ser Patrek.” Cat replied graciously, “How long until we arrive?”

“Not long now, my Lady,” Mallister replied, “Is this really _wise_ of King Robb? Ironborn are treacherous by nature, Theon Turncloak proved that.”

“It’s not your place to question my son’s decisions, Ser Patrek,” Cat retorted, “I thought you were good friends with Theon.”

“Aye,” Patrek Mallister’s voice went cold, “I was until he betrayed the trust of my King and stole Winterfell.”

Cat nodded solemnly, and looked once more over the grey iron waves.

“My Lady, if I may ask, do _you_ think this is wise?” Patrek asked, quieter now. “You are known for your distrust of the Greyjoys.”

Cat sighed deeply, and considered Ser Patrek’s words. Once, long ago, the Riverlands were ruled by the Iron Kings. That all changed during the Conquest, when Aegon’s dragons burned King Harren the Black in his great castle of Harrenhal. If it wasn’t for Lord Edmyn Tully her family would be reduced to dust. When Aegon arrived in the Riverlands he already had a reputation. Lord Edmyn and many other Riverlords deserted their King, including the Freys. The Lannisters claimed to honour their debts, but so did the Targaryens. The Tullys were raised to Lords Paramount of the Trident, and there they had stayed ever since. She knew there was a lingering resentment from the Ironborn, especially the Greyjoys, over their lost kingdom.

“I – I am unsure, ser,” Catelyn replied, “I have always said never trust a Greyjoy, and I believe that those words are true. Theon proved it when he turned his cloak. Robb is young and impulsive. Luckily he has good advisors, chiefly Lord Howland Reed. I would bet all the gold under the Rock that his hand is in this.” Cat paused, and turned to look at Patrek, “Ned trusted Howland, and Ned was a wise man. If Robb becomes even half the man my husband was, then he will be the best King the North has ever had.”

Ser Patrek smiled wistfully. “I never met Lord Eddard, but my lord father always told me of him when I was a boy. He told me of the Battle of the Bells. I am sorry for your loss.”

 _I don’t need your sorrow_ , Catelyn wanted to say, _I want my husband and my daughters back._ But instead, all she said was, “I thank you for your kindness, ser.”

Catelyn Tully had never been to Pyke in her life, only heard stories from Ned after Balon’s first rebellion. Suffice it to say she was not impressed. She’d expected a castle, like the ones of the North, tall and strong enough to withstand the gods themselves. She’d expected hundreds of ships, all long and tall, proud Ironborn warriors snarling down at her.

Instead, Pyke was small and unsteady, a few cobbled buildings huddling behind a great cliff. Balon Greyjoy’s castle was little more than a wet and rotted ruin, more collapse than keep. She was greeted by a fat-faced Ironborn man with big red rubbery lips and rheumy eyes.

“Lady Catelyn,” he said, slobber dripping from his fat lips, “His Grace was not expecting you today. The storms –”

“If you thought a storm would stop me stop a war, then you are very much mistaken,” Catelyn snapped, “Take me inside.”

The man stuttered his apology and bowed deeply, ushering Cat into the ruined keep. It was surprisingly dry inside the castle at Pyke, and warm as well. The slobbering man took Catelyn through a twisting maze of corridors and tunnels. _Gods,_ Catelyn thought suddenly, _this place is certainly more than it seems._

They entered the throne room, where Balon Greyjoy sat on one of the most repulsive thrones Catelyn had ever seen. It was a great tall thing, carved from some wood or other into the likeness of a huge kraken, complete with beady eyes and writhing tentacles. It gave of an aura of horridness and bad-taste.

The man who sat on the Seastone Chair was little better. Balon Greyjoy was once a strong man, tall and powerful enough to break stone with his bare hands. Now he was stooped and wrinkled, piggy eyes glaring out of a craggy face. His wizened hands gripped the Seastone Chair unsteadily, and Catelyn saw that he seemed out of focus.

Before him stood several other Ironborn men. Catelyn recognised Lord Rodrik Harlaw, called the Reader for his great library. There was also Lord Sawane Botley, with his charming looks and long hair and Lord Baelor Blacktyde, dressed in sable and satin. There were several others who Cat didn’t know, but all were stony faced to see her.

“Leave us.” Balon Greyjoy ordered his bannermen, and Cat noted that his voice had not gone the same way as his body. The Lords of the Iron Islands bowed and left the throne room. “So, the pup fears to meet me himself, does he?”

“He had other matters to attend to.” Cat replied, refusing to rise to the jab. _Patrek warned me about this._

“I know,” Balon said, a hint of admiration in his voice, “Busy taking Casterly Rock from the Lannisters whilst they were away. Now, where did he get an idea like that, eh?”

“Several months ago, King Robb sent you an offer, along with your only surviving son, your heir, as a token of good faith,” Catelyn said, not eager to spend longer than she had to on this shithole of an island, “You spurned him, and decided to invade his home. Most Lords of Westeros would want to flay you alive for that. Many of my King’s bannermen would be among them.”

“Let them come,” Balon snarled scornfully, “Every Ironborn warrior is worth a hundred of you of the green lands. I took the North fairly, if that’s what you are whining about. Besides,” he said, slightly reproachfully, “I only meant to take the coast. It was my fool of a son that decided to take Winterfell. Although that hasn’t gone all that badly, I must say.”

“He has less than half a hundred soldiers sworn to him,” Cat argued, “The North has thousands. He’ll be dead in a moon’s turn if you don’t agree to a peace, your dynasty with him.”

“I have a daughter.”

“No woman has ever sat the Seastone Chair,” Cat retorted, “Even us mainlanders know that.”

Balon Greyjoy sighed, and clambered off of his chair. He looked forlornly at the map of Westeros that was splayed out before him, and picked up a small statue of a kraken, representing his forces at Deepwood Motte.

“When he came here, he warned me about the wisdom of a war against the North,” Balon said. _Is that regret in his voice?_ “Therefore, I found it strange that he should take Winterfell. Lady Catelyn, I am in a position of great leverage over you. Not once, in the history of the world, has Winterfell been taken by an outsider. Not once in twelve thousand years has the North been ruled over by someone who wasn’t a Stark. We live in an era of change, Catelyn Tully.” he gestured once more to the map, “You forget, I hold Moat Cailin. Another obstacle that no invading force has passed. With Tywin Lannister at his rear, your son’s forces would be crushed if he ever got to the Neck.”

“And what if he takes King’s Landing?” Catelyn asked, “He’ll come for you, with two hundred thousand swords at his back. What then, Your Grace? Then you’ll bend the knee like you did last time, and return to licking your wounds.”

“ _How dare you?!_ ” Balon Greyjoy roared, his face twisting with rage, “ _I am a King! The Conqueror of the North!_ ”

Catelyn did not flinch. Men were so easy sometimes, “And how long do you think you will hold the North?” _That’s it, goad him, trick him,_ “The Iron Islands can raise at most ten thousand men. My son can raise four times that number, and that’s not counting the Westerlands. With Casterly Rock, he’ll have enough gold to buy sellswords from all across Essos. He’s besieging King’s Landing, and then he’ll come for you. Do the wise thing, Your Grace. You and Robb are not so different.” Cat paused for breath, and thought on what her son had told her about the Greyjoys.

“Appeal to him,” Robb had said the morning she left, “He’s like us, really. Theon was like a brother to me, and I loved him like one. Tell that to Balon; tell him that the Ironborn and the North really can work together. I hope he’s not the fool I fear he is.”

“Your son and I could not be any more different, my Lady.” Balon snapped, “He’s a boy, foolhardy and reckless. A true warrior deliberates his moves, instead of running around searching for battles constantly. He’ll lose this war, mark my words. He’ll lose it because Tywin Lannister fights with his mind as well as his swords.”

In that moment, cold fury filled Cat, “Is that what you’ve been doing, cowering here on Pyke? Planning your next move? I wouldn’t call you a strategist. I’d call you a craven.”

“Craven is it?” Balon bellowed at her, “I won’t suffer insults from anyone, let alone a mainlander. Your son wants to ally with me? So he can sit the Iron fucking Throne, is that it? What’s in it for me? Nothing but empty promises and disrespect. You’re all the same. You hear me? All of you. Tully, Lannister, Stark, it doesn’t matter. Leave me if you’ve nothing to offer.” He turned his back on her, and stalked up the steps to his throne.

Catelyn hesitated. Perhaps she’d gone too far. Perhaps she’d ruined the only chance she’d ever get to see her son succeed. Balon had what they needed – ships, supplies, fresh men. Obviously he wanted something in return. He had the North, but Catelyn knew Robb would never let him keep it. She had to give Balon something to equal his catch.

“Casterly Rock.”

Balon turned, his face blank, “What?”

“You heard me.” Catelyn replied smoothly, “If you help Robb win this war, then we will give you Casterly Rock and all the lands that go with it.”

Balon didn’t speak for a moment. Then he chuckled. Then he roared with laughter so loud the eaves rang with the sound of his mirth. He doubled over, cackling with glee. Catelyn looked nervously at him, unsure of this new development.

“Casterly Rock?” the Iron King managed to say between gales of laughter, “The Westerlands? You’d _hand that away?_ By all that is holy you are moronic.”

Catelyn forced her anger down, “And why is that?”

“You would trade Casterly Rock for – for what? A few hundred leagues of snow and ice?”

Catelyn once again refused the jab, “Casterly Rock is nothing to me, nor is it anything to my King. The North may be cold, and it may be barren, but it is my _home._ It is where I fell in love, and it is where my children were raised. It is where I have lived for many years now, and I will never, never give that up.”

Balon fell silent. His small eyes shifted over the map of Westeros that lay before him. The moment dragged on by, and Catelyn felt surer and surer that he would order her out, or worse, order her death. Men could be so childish when it came to what they thought was theirs.

Cat was normally good at reading people – a useful talent for a highborn lady – but Balon Greyjoy was very different. He was almost like Lord Eddard in the way that he was stern and hard as the lands he ruled, and impossible to negotiate for an outsider, but she could see none of her husband’s warmth in Balon’s cold eyes. Finally, he spoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	10. Davos II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stag departs for the Lion's Den.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting

DAVOS

The true King’s army was ready to march. Davos was overseeing the transfer of men into the ships of Dragonstone’s navy. Since his defeat on the Blackwater, Stannis’ forces had been utterly decimated, leaving less than ten thousand men loyal to him.

 _Ten thousand loyal men in the whole realm_ , Davos thought ruefully, _although the realm shrinks every day_.

Stannis and he had made detailed plans for their attack on King’s Landing, but they’d had no word from King Robb. Another raven had arrived a short while after the first one, bringing them news that Galbart Glover was Robb Stark’s Castellan of Casterly Rock and Acting Warden of the West. They also learned that Robb had called in the levies of all the Lords of the West, and a surprising number had accepted the call.

“It seems we have underestimated the Young Wolf,” Stannis had said when the raven arrived.

“Aye,” Davos replied, “and I hope the Lannisters will make the same mistake.”

However, he was not so sure. Tywin Lannister, while arrogant and conceited beyond measure, was no fool. After Robb Stark tricked the Old Lion at the Battle of the Green Fork and broke the Siege of Riverrun, Davos was certain that Tywin Lannister would take no chances the next time the two fought.

Davos remembered seeing Tywin at the Blackwater, or at least, it might have been. The Lord of Casterly Rock had been surrounded by hundreds of armoured knights, all wearing scarlet armour, which ran red with their enemies’ blood. He’d also seen Renly, or thought he had. It was some cruel trick of Tywin’s; terrifying Stannis’ bannermen into fleeing with the thought of their fallen leader risen up again to slay them for their treachery.

_And those bloody Tyrells._

Whilst the entirety of the Stormlords and a great many Lords of the Reach came over to Stannis following Lord Renly’s death, the Tyrells remained neutral. Lord Mace Tyrell had begun moving his host towards Bitterbridge before the news of Renly’s death had even spread through the camp. He’d mustered there, and marched north soon after.

Davos had hoped, perhaps against his better judgement, that perhaps the Reach would join them in the Battle of the Blackwater, or even take some of the Westerlands from the south.

Davos had never been good at hoping.

Instead of joining with Stannis, the Tyrells had marched their strength to join with Tywin Lannister. Davos later learned that they had camped themselves at Bronzegate, awaiting further orders. It was likely that they would march on Dragonstone soon; news had reached Stannis that Lord Paxter Redwyne had begun to move his fleet from the Arbor.

Davos heard his King before he saw him. The same could not be said of that accursed Red Woman. Davos knelt before Stannis, who bade him rise almost instantly.

“I won’t have you kneel Lord Davos,” Stannis said sharply after Davos stood back up again, “You’re my Hand, my most trusted advisor. I trust you to speak plainly to me, more so than that lickspittle Ser Axell. What do you think of our plan?”

“Your Grace, I cannot say that I have commanded many battles,” Davos replied, “But your strategy seems to be sound.”

Stannis had formulated a plan to wait just south of the Blackwater, out of sight of King’s Landing, and sweep around the rear of the Lannister forces if and when a sortie came. It was a good strategy, and Stannis was sure that it would earn the gratitude of the Young Wolf if nothing else.

“For perhaps the first time in my life,” the King in the Narrow Sea had declared the previous night, “my status as a Baratheon is moot. Perhaps a little of the diplomacy my brothers were famous for would not be amiss.”

_Let us hope that the Stark boy will not try to cross the true King. Stannis’ good humour will not last._

Davos looked and saw with sadness how much older Stannis looked, even over the past few months. Stannis looked over the battlements, deep in thought. Davos joined him, and took a little pride in what they saw.

Seventy ships of varying sizes floated in the harbour, each one flying the flaming heart of Stannis. Less than half actually belonged to the King; the rest were either supplied by his few bannermen or by Salladhor Saan, the pirate prince.

Salladhor and Davos went back years. In the days when Davos was still a smuggler, Salla had helped him out of many tricky spots. As a result, the pirate had Davos’ loyalty and trust, although the Onion Knight was certain the feeling was not shared by many of Stannis’ highborn bannermen.

Stannis nodded thoughtfully, “King Robb said he was trying to win over Balon Greyjoy.” Davos noted Stannis’ use of the word ‘King’ “Have you seen anything in your fires?”

This last was directed to Melisandre, who frowned, silent for a moment, “My fires show me little in these recent weeks. I see fire and ice, I see storm and snow, I see a mighty beast being hacked apart by his inferiors.”

“Enough of your riddles woman,” Stannis growled, “give me something of use.”

Melisandre gave her King a look that chilled even Davos. Stannis didn’t even flinch, “I do not choose what the Lord shows me, but the coming battle will decide the future of your realm, my King.”

Stannis thought on that for a moment, and Davos could practically feel his mind working. Everyone said that Tywin Lannister was the best commander in Westeros, perhaps the world, but Davos wasn’t so sure. Tywin was fortunate in his birth; the firstborn son to the most powerful House in Westeros. Stannis, on the other hand, was not so lucky. He would have been hard pressed to gain a castle of his own, being the second son of Lord Steffon Baratheon, much less command any great armies. However, in the years after Robert’s Rebellion, Stannis had proven himself to be an able commander; he commanded the Royal Fleet during the Greyjoy Rebellion, and captured Great Wyk in the name of his brother, the King.

Even during this War of Five Kings, Stannis had, against all the odds stacked against him, had survived, and still had strength enough to be consulted by the true frontrunners in the war, the Starks. Davos knew little of House Stark, and less of its members. Stannis was well acquainted with Eddard Stark, but Davos knew deep down that there was little love between them. _Respect, aye,_ Davos thought solemnly, _But Robert loved Eddard more than he ever would Stannis, his trueborn brother, and Stannis has always resented that._

Davos was also unsure of the intentions of Robb Stark, Eddard’s eldest son. Davos liked to think that he was a trusting man by nature, but the Young Wolf had not done his duty; he had not sworn fealty to Stannis, and, now that his bannermen had made him a king, he likely never would. _The North remembers,_ Davos thought, _and they remember when they were ruled by themselves, and not by a Stag._

“How soon can we get to King’s Landing?”

“It is hard to say, Your Grace,” Davos replied thoughtfully, “If the winds are true, then perhaps a few days, but I cannot be sure until we leave.”

Stannis nodded once again. “Thank you, Lord Davos. When you have taken your leave of me, ready your men.”

“Your Grace?”

“We shall sail as soon as we can. Tonight.”

“Your Grace, with all due respect –”

“My lord father taught me that nothing said after those words was respectful,” Stannis interrupted, his tone icy, his eyes two balls of blue fire, “But I would have you speak your mind.”

When Davos spoke again, it was softer than before, “Your Grace, I hardly think that the men are ready for another battle. And the winds are, if anything, the _opposite_ of favourable –”

“The Lord of Light will ensure our swift voyage.” Melisandre murmured serenely before Stannis glared at her. _What happens here?_

“Surely it would be better to wait for a different time,” Davos spoke on, doing his best to ignore the ominous words of the Red Priestess, “otherwise, you put yourself and your men at great risk.”

Stannis locked eyes with his Hand before speaking, “This is the time. And I will risk everything.”

Davos’ heart sank. He hadn’t been expecting anything different, really. Such was Stannis Baratheon.

“See that my daughter is ready to go,” Stannis said, after a long moment of silence, “I want her to come with us.”

“Your Grace, again I must protest!” Davos said, _No, not the little princess!_ He wanted to scream, _Please keep her here where she’ll be safe_ , “Wouldn’t it be safer for her here?”

“Tell me something, Lord Davos,” Stannis growled, his voice sharp and commanding, “Do you know the Lannisters? In all your years of smuggling, did you ever once hear the tale of the Reynes and Tarbecks? If Tywin Lannister hears that I have left Dragonstone with no garrisoned he will bring the full force of his wrath upon my daughter. I will not let that happen. Go, Lord Seaworth. Must I ask you a third time?”

“No,” Davos replied, sensing his lost battle, “I understand, Your Grace.”

He bowed, and took his leave, walking into the bowels of Dragonstone. The castle had been raised over five hundred years ago by the Valyrian Freehold, and was the furthest west the dragonlords ever expanded. The first Targaryen to hold the castle was Aenar the Exile, who travelled there twelve years before the Doom. He was scorned when he did, called a craven. His was the only line to survive the Doom.

Shireen’s chambers were at the top of the Stone Drum, overlooking the Narrow Sea. They were well furnished, and it was clear that they were well lived in. The little princess was sitting cross-legged on her bed, reading a heavy tome. Shireen would have been pretty, if not for the greyscale on her face. She had long black hair and intelligent blue eyes. Her ruined face broke into a smile when she saw the Hand of the King.

“Davos!!!” Shireen squealed and ran towards him. Davos feigned injury when she hugged him, “I haven’t seen you in ages. Have you been with father?”

“I have, little princess,” he replied, smiling back at her, “What are you reading?”

Shireen pulled a face, like she’d bitten a particularly sour lemon, “It’s a boring book about maesters. Why do I have to learn about boring things like that? I’d much rather learn about history, about the Kings of Winter, or perhaps the First Men. I don’t know much about them, and I probably should, shouldn’t I?”

“Why is that then, princess?”

The part of Shireen’s face that wasn’t cracked flushed a vibrant scarlet, “Well, I-I’m supposed to – um – you know.”

Confusion flittered across Davos’ mind for a moment, and then he remembered. _Brandon_ , he thought, _She thinks of Lord Brandon._ Stannis had not spoken to his Hand of the match since he’d mentioned accepting it. Presumably a conversation with Shireen had followed the raven’s arrival.

“You’re speaking of your marriage to Brandon Stark, yes?” Davos chuckled, causing Shireen to redden even more, “Why does it worry you so princess?”

“Isn’t he crippled?” Shireen didn’t say it like it was a hateful thing, rather as if she was afraid of something.

“Princess, I hardly think that that’s a huge problem. I’m sure Prince Brandon is –”

“Won’t the other Lords all hate him?” Shireen’s pleading eyes took the Onion Knight off balance, “They’ll laugh at him, call him – call him the Cripple King, and I’ll be a stupid Cripple Queen at the same time, and they’ll hate us both, and –”

It suddenly dawned on Davos that Shireen didn’t resent Brandon his injuries; rather she was worried for him. He rushed to interrupt her, “They might. It is possible that the other Lords will resent your – um – betrothed, but it will not be because he is crippled.”

“What – what do you mean?”

 _Oh little princess. How lucky you are to know so little of the ways of the world,_ “Men always want what they do not have.” Davos trawled through his mind, searching for a way to explain this, “Brandon will be king, and they will want his power and position. You will be the Queen, and they will envy your strength and sweetness. Men resent your father, but he is as able-bodied as any of them. They resent him because of his blood. Those men who smile sweetly to your face, but curse your name when you turn your back are no true men, nor are they your true supporters.”

Shireen still looked unsure, so he tried to console her another way, “And besides, I am sure Brandon is a gentle boy. King Robb would not give you any other, and your father would not accept a monster. He loves you greatly – more than you know. He wouldn’t give you up for anything.”

Despite the conviction in his voice, a nagging doubt forced its ugly way into Davos’ mind. _I will risk everything_ , Stannis had said. And Davos Seaworth found himself praying, to the Seven, to the Old Gods, to whomever the hells was listening; _Don’t let him risk her. Please._

Shireen, however, seemed satisfied with the Onion Knight’s words. She smiled warmly, and Davos felt his heart warming at the sight. _She is too good for this life,_ he thought sadly, _too good for this world of hurt._

“I thank you for your counsel, Lord Davos,” Shireen said, grinning mischievously, “But I believe my father would have me pack my things.”

Davos chuckled, and kissed his little princess’ head. He walked down the corridor out to where Stannis was still standing, still looking out over the ships. There were less than a hundred men in the castle now, and even they were beginning to trickle out of the gates.

Stannis looked to his Hand, “Is she ready?”

“She’s just finishing, Your Grace,” Davos replied, nodding as he did so.

“Very well,” the King replied, “Get yourself onto your boat, Lord Seaworth. We have a long sail ahead of us.”

Davos looked out over the bay for a second, gauging the direction of the waves, “Aye. The wind is most fair. The Red Woman’s god is smiling on us today, Your Grace.”

“I don’t need him smiling today.” Stannis snapped, although there was more than a hint of a smile in his voice, “I’d have him smile for the battle.”

“I’ll offer him my own prayer,” Davos replied, and for once he meant it, “Men seem to delight in laughing when they see me. Hopefully gods are of the same temperament.”

A flicker of a smile graced Stannis’ features then, and Davos took his leave. He strode confidently towards his ship, _Black Betha_ , and took the wheel when he got to the helm. To his right was Ser Meryn Storm, and to his left stood his first mate, a man Davos had not yet met. He didn’t need to know him yet though. There would be time for that after the battle.

He nodded to the man, who called for the sail to be lowered. Twenty yards of rough cloth lowered, and Davos smiled to see his sigil unfurled. The men below started to row, but the effort did not seem needed. Davos turned, and caught a final glimpse of Shireen at the prow of Stannis’ own ship.

 _I’ll see you again Princess,_ Davos promised, _After this battle, I’ll see you again._


	11. Robb II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wolves camp outside the Lions' Den. But war comes upon them quicker than expected.

ROBB

When he was a boy, he’d been told that King’s Landing stank.  However, in all his worst nightmares, he’d never thought to find himself breathing in the stench of so many vile odours. Even from here, half a league away, Robb could smell the shit of half a million inhabitants. The stench was so potent it filled his mouth, and he curled his lip at the taste.

It was the smell of victory.

For nearly a moon’s turn Robb and his men had camped outside the southron capital. It had only taken that long for them to cut off every single supply line into the city, and only that long for the people of King’s Landing to begin to starve.

 _Those Tyrells of yours are helpful, aren’t they Tywin?_ Robb thought, satisfied with his success. There was little that could dampen the Young Wolf’s mood at this moment.

On his march from Casterly Rock, many lords of the Westerlands had rallied to his cause. They’d sent the better part of their troops off with Tywin, but the threat of a Northern army ravaging their lands had quickly cowed them. Robb had gained an extra five thousand foot, and about three hundred horse. _Not as many as I wanted._

There had been some resistance, and Robb had run into a large Lannister host just south of the Gold Road. Led by Ser Lyle Crakehall, one of Tywin Lannister’s most competent commanders. The battle had been costly, but a victory nonetheless. They’d met no further opposition on the road to King’s Landing.

However heartening it was to know how close he was to victory, Robb still felt a sense of unease. They’d had no word from Stannis Baratheon, nor from Balon Greyjoy. Robb had resolved to assume that they would not be joining him in the battle to come.

“Your father would have trusted them,” Rickard Karstark had said sullenly when Robb told him this, “He would have trusted that their silence meant preparation.”

“My father trusted a lot of people,” Robb had retorted, perhaps a little too sharply, “he trusted that Petyr Baelish and the Spider would help him secure the throne. They betrayed him, and he lost his head. I trusted Theon Greyjoy, and he repaid me by turning his cloak. Forgive me for being a little untrustworthy sometimes, my Lord.”

Lord Karstark had started at that, before seeing the reason behind Robb’s words. And so they waited. The waiting wasn’t so bad; it gave Robb’s men a chance to rest up and ready themselves for the inevitable slaughter. It was the thought of Tywin Lannister behind those city walls that made Robb uneasy.

_Everything I’ve done, all the way I’ve come means nothing if I lose this next battle._

_What comes next decides the future of the North._

The Young Wolf spared one last glance at the southron capital before striding back through the camp. He walked to a large metal cage right in the centre of the camp. It was a well-travelled cage, having journeyed with Robb’s host all the way from Riverrun, through the Westerlands and down to King’s Landing. An admirable trip most men would not make in their lives.

But Robb wanted the man in the cage to see the whole war. After all, it was he who drew one of the first swords.

He had been a handsome man, once upon a time, the talk of Westeros. His eyes had glimmered like precious jewels and his hair had shone like the sun, or like his famed armour. But that was before he had been captured. Now his hair was lank and unwashed, his once glittering eyes faded and dejected, his proud face drawn and pale. He slumped where once he sat strong, a lion’s defiant son cowed by the wolf.

The Kingslayer had been brought low.

“Evening Stark.” the man’s voice was pleasant enough, if a little hoarse from lack of use, “What brings you to my humble home? I apologise for the mess, but I’ve rather got my hands full.”

“When will your father attack?”

A hint of a smile flickered across Jaime Lannister’s face, “Have you grown bored of waiting? Do you lust for battle? My father’ll give it to you alright. He’ll give you a sword in your gut for your troubles. If you’re lucky you’ll live, and scurry back home with your tail between your legs.”

“Your father’s never beaten me yet.” Robb said softly, “neither has any Lannister.”

Anger flashed in those beautiful green eyes. Clearly the Battle of the Camps still rankled in the Kingslayer’s memory. _Good_.

“I asked you a question.” Robb said after a moment, “When will your father attack?”

“When you least expect it,” the Kingslayer shrugged as best he could with his manacled arms, “Or when Mace Tyrell gets his flowery arse up the Kingsroad. Whichever happens sooner.”

“I’ve been sitting outside his gates for a month now,” Robb said, “Surely he thinks I’m settling in for a good long siege.”

“Perhaps he does. And perhaps King’s Landing is ready for such a siege.” Jaime replied, “You certainly aren’t.”

Whilst he loathed to admit it, Robb knew the Kingslayer was right. Even before Robb had marched, Tywin’s forces had been laying waste to the Riverlands, and now that was starting to hurt them. Where once they might have had enough food for a decade of war, now their own supply lines were running low. Robb needed King’s Landing to fall, and fall soon.

They’d come across no labourers in the field, nor much in the way of food in the surrounding villages and holdfasts. If Tywin was clever – which Robb had no doubt of – then he’d have gathered all the smallfolk and their food in the city, to wait out the siege. Robb decided to try a different tack.

“Could it be possible to storm the city?”

“If you think I’m going to tell you how to defeat my father, then you’re –”

The Kingslayer stopped talking when Robb’s mailed fist smacked into the side of his head. The blond man spat blood on the floor, and glared up at the Young Wolf hatefully. He took a deep breath, before speaking again, a little quieter again.

“You wouldn’t hit me if I wasn’t in these chains.”

“Then I’ll count myself lucky that you are in them,” Robb snapped, losing patience. He’d had to endure the Kingslayer’s quips and jibes all the way from Riverrun, and he’d had enough. Perhaps it was time to heed Lord Bolton’s words and begin to extract his information by... _other means_ , “Now tell me whether I can storm the city and how many I will lose doing so, or I’ll have to force you.”

“The son of Eddard Stark using torture?” the Kingslayer smirked as he did so, twisting Robb’s stomach. _Calm. He goads you,_ “Why do I not believe that? You’re too honourable to try that.”

“Maybe I am,” Robb replied calmly, “But there are other lords who would not be so lenient to you. Lord Karstark, for instance, lost two sons to your sword. I promised him vengeance.”

The Kingslayer did his best to hide the flicker of anxiety from his eyes, but it was noted.

“What’s the matter Kingslayer,” Robb mocked, “Are you fraid of a greybeard Northman savage? I’ll be back tomorrow with Lord Karstark, and we’ll want answers.”

With that, Robb left the cage. He walked back to his own tent, right in the centre of the encampment. It was well furnished, but not too well; the King in the North did not like to remove himself too much from the lives of his men. Splayed out on the table was a map of the Crownlands, showing all they knew of the enemy’s movements.

Seated at the table were two of Robb’s most trusted advisors. Lord Howland Reed sat with his eyes closed, seemingly asleep, although he opened them when Robb entered. Behind him stood Lady Maege Mormont, the Lady of Bear Island. She scorned silks in favour of boiled leather and scraped plate. She was a huge woman, of a height with her King, with dark hair and black eyes.

“You asked to see us, Your Grace.” Lady Maege said calmly.

Robb didn’t speak for a moment, instead pulling out two letters. He unfurled one, and began to read.

_To the Lords of the North, Riverlands and Westerlands,_

_I, Robb Stark, decree that, in the event of my death and the failure to liberate Winterfell from the clutches of Theon Greyjoy that my half-brother Jon Snow be legitimised and crowned King in the North._

_Robb Stark,_

_King in the North, King of the Trident and King of the Rock._

Robb was pleased to see that Maege nodded, but Howland shocked him by shaking his head, “This cannot be, Your Grace.”

“And why not? I trust Jon with my life, and he is a Stark, the blood of my father.”

“Your sisters come first,” Howland reminded him.

“One of my sisters will wed the Imp if we lose this war, and the other has been missing if not dead for a year and half,” Robb snapped, slamming his hand down upon the table, “I will not let my Kingdom fall into the hands of the Ironborn by declaring Bran my heir, nor Rickon. Jon is the only option left to me. Give me one good reason why he cannot be my heir.”

Howland opened his mouth, but closed it again, thinking carefully. When he spoke, it was little more than a whisper, “I made a promise, concerning Jon, a long time ago. I made it to your father, and nothing, nothing, releases me from its bonds. But Jon cannot be your heir.”

“Why not?”

“It is not his destiny.” Howland replied simply.

Robb grew wroth at that reply, “And what is _my_ destiny, Lord Reed? What if my destiny is to die in the coming battle? Is it my kingdom’s destiny to fall into the kraken’s tentacles? Jon will be my heir. The King you made commands it.”

He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts, “You will both travel to Greywater Watch, _separately._ I have assigned a dozen men to each of you, for speed. May the gods speed you on your way.”

He handed each a letter, and bade them leave. Howland hung back for a moment, before walking out of the tent.

Robb lay down, shedding only the top layer of his armour. He’d been fighting this war too long to make the mistake of getting too undressed. His bed was uneven and uncomfortable, yet he fell asleep within moments. Unfortunately, Robb was plagued with horrifying dreams.

_He stood on the edge of a great white cliff, covered in thick, lush grass. The sun shone overhead, and he heard the sounds of wildlife. Suddenly, Robb heard a horrid cracking sound behind him. He turned, and watched in morbid fascination as the grass froze solid before his very eyes. The wave of white snow rushed over the cliff, and every living thing it touched became coated in a thick coat of ice. Far above him, a dark shape wheeled in the sky, and a shiver ran down his spine when it gave a blood-curdling scream._

_The dream changed, and now he stood in the sea. There was a great battle raging not fifty feet from where he stood. The sea itself seemed red from all the blood in the water. Thousands of bodies lay face down in the water, and the screams of the dying rang out for thousands of miles._

_Then he stood in a dark room. He thought for a moment that he was all alone, until he heard a slathering sound. He turned, and saw the ruin of a man hunched over, skinning a trout. He wore the shimmering pelt of a wolf. The ruined man soon lost interest in the fish, and crawled over to a bronze circlet that lay on the ground. He twirled it about his fingers, giggling insanely. “Soon,” he murmured, “Soon all you have will be mine.”_

_The dream changed again, and now he was running alongside a great river. He was low to the ground, and he could smell the two man-packs. On the one side was his master’s pack, from the cold lands and the wet lands and the rocky lands. They smelled of sweat, but also of confidence and strength. On the other side, across the water, was the smell of the men his master called ‘enemy.’ They too were from the rocky lands, but also from these lands around him, and some were from stranger lands still, lands that smelled of summer and sunshine. Even from here he could smell their leader, an old grizzled lion, hardened from years on the hunt. But there was a wily one too, and there was a youngling they all sought to protect. He could understand their need to protect their young, but they had harmed his peaceful sister. It was because of them too that the wild sister had run, and one of the reasons he’d journeyed so far south._

_His neck whipped back when he heard the shouts of his master’s pack. He did not understand what they said, but he could tell that something was not right. Perhaps it was another man-pack, perhaps like the one who smelled of salt, the one who had betrayed his master. He ran back towards his master now, needing to wake him, to warn him of what was happening._

Robb woke to the shouts of fifty thousand men readying themselves as quickly as they can. He swore, and leapt out of bed, awake in an instant. He began roughly pulling on his armour, fiddling with the straps. Olyvar Frey, his young squire, burst through the opening of the tent and rushed to help his King.

“What’s going on out there Olyvar?” Robb asked, rather breathless from the speed of his activity.

“It’s our scouts Your Grace,” Olyvar replied hurriedly, “They’ve seen ships on the horizon. King Stannis is nearly here! And the Tyrells have begun to move up the rose road”

_What in seven hells?_

Robb bit back a curse, and allowed Olyvar to finish putting on his armour. Last they had heard the Tyrells were at Ashford, restocking. _And Stannis hadn’t even fucking left Dragonstone._

Evidently the winds had been favourable to the King in the Narrow Sea. Robb burst out of his tent, and climbed up onto his horse as fast as he could. He rode to the edge of the camp, and looked out over Blackwater Bay. The horizon was covered in sails. Most flew strange sigils that Robb did not know, but there were dozens of fiery stags as well.

“Shit.”

Robb heard the thud of hooves as the Greatjon rode up beside him, a smile plastered over his huge face.

“Why’re you cursing Wolf?” he chuckled, “Stannis won’t give us much of a fight, neither will the Fat Flower when he sees our host. Like as not, he’ll offer his flowery slut of a daughter for you to marry like he did with the Lannisters and Renly.”

“It’s not so much them I’m worried about,” Robb replied darkly, “It’s more Tywin Lannister within those walls. If he takes this opportunity, we’re crushed. If we are, then it’s a long way to run, with a lot of angry dogs sniffing at our tails.”

The Greatjon clapped Robb on the back, almost knocking him off of his horse, “Ever hear of what wolves do to dogs? Don’t you worry, Your Grace. We’ll save your sisters and crush that little blond prick on the Iron Throne.”

Despite the graveness of the situation, Robb smiled weakly. He thanked the Greatjon, and put on his lord’s face. _These men won’t get a second chance_ , he thought grimly, _but don’t you dare tell them that._

“Form up!” he bellowed, and all that were ready amassed into three loose columns. He looked at Ser Brynden, all the way on the right, and then at Lord Karstark, down on the left. The Greatjon roared down in the vanguard, and the archer’s horns blew at the command of Ser Aenys Frey.

A horrid clanking put a stop to Robb’s good cheer. He looked at the walls of King’s Landing, and saw with dismay that the gates were opening. He looked again at the slowly advancing ships, and then back at the thousands of men pouring out of the city, all flying a golden lion.

_Fuck it._

“ _FOR WINTERFELL!!!!_ ” he bellowed, urging his horse onwards, barely hearing the thousands behind him over their own battle cries and screams.

Such was how Robb Stark rode into the most important battle of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	12. Arya II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The She-Wolf travels with the Mad Dog, and takes her first taste of vengeance.

ARYA

The rocking motion of the horse which had originally lulled her suddenly jolted Arya from her dreams. It was still dark, though the moon was high and full, and she nervously looked around, before remembering where she was. The powerful figure of the Hound sat behind her, one massive arm around her middle, the other holding Stranger’s reigns loosely. The usually rabid horse was docile and calm, as was custom in his master’s hold.

Arya wriggled, trying to loosen the Hound’s grip, but that did nothing except give him cause to squeeze her harder with his mailed fist. She squirmed all the harder, until the Hound cuffed her about the ear.

“Let go of me!”

“Shut it,” the Hound snapped, “Three moons I’ve had to put up with your shit. D’you think I want to travel with you?”

“You kidnapped me!” Arya growled at him, but the younger Clegane brother just laughed at her.

“Aye, that I did.”

“Why?”

Even as she asked, Arya wondered why she’d never thought to before. They must have travelled together for nearly a month, with no real sense of direction. It was certainly getting colder, though she wasn’t sure whether it was because they were going north or just the advancing winter. What rumours they’d heard from passing villagers told them that the fields were getting harder to plant. One man told them that the frosts had come south of the Neck, as far down as Seagard. Arya often wondered where the Hound was taking her, but she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking.

He shrugged, “You’re valuable. Someone’ll reward me for bringing you home safe girl.”

“Where are we going though?”

“Riverrun,” he answered, “Unless your fool uncle’s gone to King’s Landing with your fool brother and his fool army.”

“He’s not a fool!” Arya snapped at him, “He’s brave, braver than you’ll ever be! You ran and hid, like a coward.”

The Hound looked down at her, rage filling his eyes. It looked to Arya for a moment as if his anger was causing his face to bubble, but then the illusion was gone, “He’s a fool and he’s a cunt and he’s probably dead by now. No-one fights the Lannisters and lives girl. I thought you’d know that after all this time.”

“Why should I?”

“You were at Harrenhal.”

“I never told you that!” Arya snapped at him, and the Hound laughed darkly.

“You talk in your sleep.”

Arya shut up after that, and glowered at the horse’s back as they rode through the countryside. She knew that the Hound was lying, or at least that he didn’t know the truth about Robb, but his words still stung. If Robb was dead, Arya wondered where she would go. Would Mother die with him? What about Bran and Rickon? Where they still in the North? Arya hadn’t heard anything about them since they left to go south in the first place. She still knew nothing of Sansa’s fate, and hoped that her sister was still well. She hated Sansa, but that didn’t mean she didn’t love her too. At least, she hoped not anyway.

As the hours passed, Arya thought that this part of the Riverlands looked familiar. There was no way to tell – all the trees and bushes and little brooks looked the same as anywhere else in the world – but this place had a familiar… feeling about it. Arya felt a presence here, almost like a family member or…

She shook her head, but the feeling didn’t clear. It seemed to be in the very air around them, the smell of home, of Winterfell, of the North itself. If Arya closed her eyes, she could almost feel the first flakes of a new snowfall on her nose, or hear the calls of her family. It was faint, and every time she reached out for it, it faded, but the feeling was still _there_ , just out of reach.

Perhaps the Hound sensed it too, because his hand went from her waist to his sword, and the horse tensed beneath her, as if ready to flee or to fight. Arya’s fingers went to her own hip, to where Needle _should_ have been, but when she grasped for the pommel all she felt was the fabric of her tunic. The feeling returned, and she almost relaxed, before deciding to use those thoughts of home to focus her mind. _That’s_ what she wanted to fight for. Not a crown or a king she didn’t care about, _home_.

Then the moment was gone. The Hound relaxed, Stranger carried on through the woods, and Arya felt like crying. Because when the stillness returned, the feeling had vanished like a dream in the morning.

Hours later they rode by a small village, and Arya’s stomach growled at the smell of roasting meet and her heart longed for new company at the sound of voices drifting over the quiet of the open road. This new village might also give her a chance to escape, though she doubted the Hound would let her far out of his sight. Arya didn’t like being a prisoner any more than she liked being ‘valuable’. She almost wished that she couldn’t get home, so that she’d always be Arry the boy or Weasel the servant girl or even Nan the cupbearer, and never Arya Stark the lord’s daughter, Arya Stark the lady, Arya Stark the king’s sister.

She scolded herself, but could still not put the image of her riding free out of her mind. _Soon,_ she thought to herself, _soon I’ll kill him, or he’ll let his guard down, and I’ll run away._

Unfortunately, she had nothing to kill the Hound with. He was much bigger than her, and armoured in thick plate. She, on the other hand, wore worn and scuffed leathers, and he had a sword besides. Arya had gotten stronger over the past few months, but she still doubted she would be able to lift his sword, let alone use it.

The Hound rode up by an inn, and began counting coins in his hand. Arya dismounted and tied her horse to a post, keeping a wary eye on the road. They’d managed to avoid any Lannisters by staying away from the kingsroad, but they’d encountered thousands of smallfolk marching south. _King’s Landing_ , they all said, _the sparrows fly to King’s Landing_.

Once satisfied, the Hound walked to the inn, Arya a few paces behind. The inn was small and cramped inside, and the Hound scowled around at the room. Arya’s eyes wandered over the faces of the patrons, and her heart skipped a beat.

Seated in the corner were seven men in Lannister red and gold. None of them noticed Arya and the Hound, but Arya narrowed her eyes and made a fist with her left hand when she saw Polliver and the man they called the Tickler. Last she’d seen them, they’d been at Harrenhal, but that was long ago now. She had half-hoped that they’d died in the riot, but she now knew that to be false.

_Ser Gregor. Dunsen. Polliver. Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler. The Hound. Ser Armory. Ser Ilyn. Ser Meryn. King Joffrey. Queen Cersei. Valar Morghulis._

A fat innkeep bustled out from the back room, and looked hard at Arya and the Hound. The Hound wordlessly held out a hand and dumped a fistful of coppers into the innkeep’s pudgy hand. The man looked at the Hound, looked at the coins, looked back at the Hound.

“What have you got?” the Hound asked.

The innkeep chewed his at fat cheek for a moment, “Chicken.”

“Some of that then.”

Not waiting for a reply, the Hound went and sat down heavily in the opposite corner to the Lannister men. Arya sat beside him, and her eyes caught a glimpse of something familiar…

_Needle._

“He’s got it!”

“Got what?” the Hound snapped.

“Needle,” Arya replied, voice hushed, “my sword.”

She could _hear_ the Hound roll his eyes, “You named your sword.”

Arya frowned up at him, “Lots of people name their swords.”

“Lots of cunts.”

Arya glared at him, and he chuckled darkly. The sound gained the attention of the man with Needle – _Polliver_ – and he came over, swaggering in his shiny armour. Arya lowered her head, anxious not to be recognised.

“Are you the fucking Hound?”

The Hound’s voice was cold, “So what if I am?”

“We fought under your brother,” Polliver said amiably, “Ser Gregor.”

“Where is Gregor now?”

Polliver frowned, “King’s Landing, I think. ‘E got a raven from Lord Lannister. Said ‘is presence was needed in the battle.”

“There’s no battle there anymore.” the Hound laughed.

Polliver shrugged, “Might be the Stark boy’s marched on the capital,” he paused, “Ser Gregor flew into a rage when the Rock was taken. Threatened to kill us all. We stayed out of ‘is way.”

“Aren’t you clever?” the Hound’s words were laced with sarcasm.

If Polliver noticed the slight, he didn’t care, although Arya thought that he probably didn’t know that he was being mocked. “Why ain’t you with the King? Ain’t you ‘is dog?”

The Hound was silent. Arya’s eyes flickered to Polliver’s belt, where Needle was. She readied herself to move. Finally, the Hound spoke.

“Fuck the king.”

Polliver moved faster than she would have thought possible for a man his size in armour. A dagger flashed out of nowhere, but the Hound was faster. And he was larger. A steel fist smacked into Polliver’s cheek, and the man went sprawling, teeth scattered across the floor.

His comrades leapt to their feet, swords already being drawn. The Hound snarled, and showed his own steel with a growl. He charged the other six men, but Arya had eyes only for Polliver. She plucked the sword from his belt, and looked down at him.

“Fine sword you’ve got there boy,” her voice was deadly soft, “Maybe I’ll pick my teeth with it.”

Polliver’s eyes flashed with recognition, but before he could speak Arya slipped Needle into his throat. Thick red blood bubbled up from his mouth and ran down his cheeks. A small smile grew on Arya’s face when the light went out of his eyes.

Suddenly, she was on her back, and there was a heavy thing on top of her. The Tickler had thrown a chair at her, and Arya leapt up, brandishing Needle. His cruel grey eyes glimmered with excitement as he gestured with his own, much larger blade. Arya breathed heavily, blood pounding in her ears.

_Is there any gold in the village? Is there any gold in the village? Is there any gold in the village?_

Arya ran at him, ducking under his wild swing. She was a Stark of Winterfell, and had seen her brothers and Theon Greyjoy train for years. This man was no swordsman.

_Where is Lord Beric? Which of you helped him? Where did he go?_

She slashed at his wrist, and Needle found skin and bone, and tasted the blood underneath. The Tickler screamed just as his victims had, and he dropped his sword.

_How many were there? How many knights? How many bowmen?_

The Tickler didn’t wear any armour – he likely left the fighting to others – so Needle found its way easily into his soft gut again and again.

_Is there any gold in the village? Where is Lord Beric? How many were there? Is there any gold in the village? Which of you helped him? How many knights? Is there any gold in the village? Where did he go? How many bowmen?_

Arya didn’t stop stabbing until the Hound pulled her off the Tickler’s body. Black blood wept from half a hundred holes all across his chest and his throat and his neck. She hadn’t noticed that he was dead. She was still screaming at his corpse when the Hound dragged her from the inn, stuffing food into his pockets.

Later, much later, the details came back to her. Arya began to remember how wet the Tickler’s shirt had been, wet with his blood, and how he screamed and cried and gurgled as she stuck him again and again and again and…

Neither of them slept very well that night, but Arya had a little moment of joy when she recited her prayer.

“Ser Gregor,” she whispered, “Dunsen. Raff the Sweetling. The Hound. Ser Amory. Ser Ilyn. Queen Cersei. King Joffrey. _Valar Morghulis_.”

When she did sleep – if at all it _was_ sleep – she dreamed once again of her pack.

_She was low to the ground, though taller than she had been. The pale moon was high in the deep blue sky and the forest was alive with strange scents. She smelled deer and squirrels and songbirds, but she smelled new things. Men. The men with their blood-coloured, hard-to-break skin and their shining, cutting sticks. Her pack also filled these woods. They numbered hundreds, if not thousands, and there was little safety for men in these woods, though they did not know that yet. But they would. One day._

_Suddenly, she felt a… she felt_ something _brush at her mind. It was something she knew, something she remembered from the cold lands. Brother. The word tasted strange, but she could feel him at the edge of her mind. He was far away, to the south and east, her elder brother, the leader of their pack of six._

_And he was in trouble._

_She howled to her pack, and the night came alive with the howls of hundreds of wolves. Old bitches, young males, barely-weaned pups, they all answered her cry. And then they were moving, thousands of grey-and-black shapes darting through the forest. Her nose twitched, and her mouth watered as a familiar scent reached her. Blood._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	13. Daenerys I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragon Queen strikes a deal with the Harpy's Servant

DAENERYS

The hot Astapori sun beat down from on high, and, even beneath the shade of the palace, Daenerys Targaryen sweltered. _It is too hot for anything_ , she thought to herself, _a wonder anything gets done_. But she knew that things _were_ done here in Astapor. Every year, thousands of boys were taken from their mothers, castrated, and made into killers. Every year, hundreds of those boys would die, but every year, hundreds would be successful, becoming the greatest warriors this side of the world.

The Unsullied.

Dany could see them from the palace; ten thousand, if she were to guess. More than enough to gather support for her claim in Westeros. A niggling doubt at the back of her mind opposed the use of slave soldiers, but she needed an army whiles her dragons grew.

On Dany’s left stood Ser Jorah Mormont, once Lord of Bear Island. Ser Jorah was a huge hairy man, and looked half-bear himself. He was well armoured, though his dripping brow betrayed his discomfort. He had been Dany’s staunchest supporter for nearly two years, barely leaving her side. _He loves me_ , she knew, _but I cannot_.

The eunuch pit-fighter Strong Belwas stood to Dany’s right, his enormous belly criss-crossed with white, faded scars. He was extremely stout, though Dany knew him to be a formidable fighter. He was flanked by his own squire, a mysterious Westerosi named Arstan Whitebeard. The old man was lithe and slim for a man of his years, and Dany had taken an almost immediate liking to him.

The group of four stood inside one of Astapor’s great pyramids, waiting to see one of the so-called Great Masters. Dany had waited for a few days, but queens became impatient easily. She restlessly tapped her sandal-clad foot against the floor, and glared at the heavy gilded doors. They showed brutal images of the Great Masters imposing their will on legions of slaves, of the victories of the Unsullied, and of the Harpy, the object of Astapori worship.

Suddenly, as if obeying Dany’s wishes, the doors opened and a small, dark-skinned girl stepped out. She was short and skinny, but well-dressed and seemingly well-fed. Her short hair was in a braid, and around her thin neck was a dainty – but nonetheless demeaning – leather fetter. Dany would have said that she was only ten or eleven.

The girl bowed, “Great Master Kraznys will see you now.” she spoke the Common Tongue perfectly, and Dany smiled, gesturing to her allies that they should move in.

The Great Master’s audience chamber was huge and well-lit. Windows overlooked the horrid beauty of Astapor, a city far more ancient than any Dany had seen before. It was cool in here, which Dany was thankful for. It would not do for her to sweat before this adversary.

The Great Master himself was seated atop a golden throne, flanked by two Unsullied of his own. He wore garish silks of green and gold, and his thin black beard was waxed and curled at the tip. The rest of his head was covered in sleek black hair, and dark eyes glittered with malice and greed. Another emotion entered those eyes when Dany entered.

 _Lust_.

Dany ignored the feeling of the man’s eyes roaming all over her body, and bowed her head slightly.

“Great Master,” she tried to summon the queen within her, “I am Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, Rightful Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Beside the Great Master, the interpreter girl spoke Dany’s words into his ear. The Great Master nodded, but his attention seemed only on Dany’s body, rather than her words. She did her best to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

After a moment, he spoke in the harsh tongue of Ghiscar, mixed with Valyrian, and the interpreter translated after every sentence or so.

“Great Master Kraznys wishes to know why you are in Astapor,” she paused, and seemed to think of words, “gracious queen.”

“I seek an army.”

“Great Master Kraznys says that we have no army for sale.”

Dany frowned, “I see ten thousand Unsullied outside. You sell Unsullied.”

As the interpreter spoke these words to the Great Master, he chuckled darkly, before speaking again, “These are not for sale to…” again the interpreter paused, “someone like you.” she finished lamely.

Dany – who spoke Valyrian fluently – knew exactly what ‘someone like her’ was, but decided to spare the poor interpreter girl from that embarrassment, and ignored the slight against her, “And why not?”

“Great Master Kraznys asks if you can pay.”

“When I come into my kingdom,” Dany answered, “I will pay you back threefold what these slaves are worth.”

“Great Master Kraznys asks when you will come into your kingdom.”

Dany bit back a retort. _Calm, calm, calm. A queen does not rise,_ “Westeros will rise up for me, as their _rightful Queen_.”

“Great Master Kraznys says that Westeros is a long way from here,” the interpreter continued, “any number of things could happen that would stop him from being paid.”

 _Then Great Master Kraznys should take up a more secure profession_ , Dany thought, _it might suit someone of his temperament_.

“On my honour as a Queen –”

“Great Master Kraznys says that he will have his payment,” the interpreter replied, “Or you will have no army.”

 _He used choicer words than that_ , Dany knew, and fought ever harder to swallow back her pride. _I need this man, and I need his soldiers. This is what it means to be a Queen_.

“We…” Dany began, looking to Ser Jorah and Strong Belwas, “We have gold, silver, precious gems. What payment would the Great Master like for his Unsullied?”

The interpreter took her time, “Great Master Kraznys says that depends on how many slaves Queen Daenerys Stormborn wishes to buy.”

“Queen Daenerys Stormborn wishes to know how many slaves are for sale.”

She heard Strong Belwas snort at her terse words, but the interpreter held her calm. She spoke into the Great Master’s ear, and his reply was short.

“Great Master Kraznys says that you cannot hope to pay for eight thousand Unsullied.”

Daenerys lifted her chin defiantly, and the Great Master leered down at her. He spoke again, and the interpreter girl’s eyes widened.

“Pray,” Dany said, “what does he say?”

“Great Master Kraznys,” the interpreter girl said, “says that only one thing will pay for that many Unsullied. One of three things.”

 _The dragons_.

“Great Master Kraznys has heard of Daenerys Stormborn’s dragons,” the girl continued, “and he would gladly accept one as payment for eight thousand Unsullied. After all, what is one dragon against all of Westeros?”

Daenerys was silent. Westeros was her birthright as a Targaryen, but the dragons were her children. She had birthed them, fed them, _rescued_ them. She had longed for Westeros all her life, longed for home, but these dragons were three of a kind, the only three of their kind in the world. But she needed the army if she were to challenge for the Iron Throne. She looked to Ser Jorah. His face was unreadable, but that told her enough. Strong Belwas looked outraged, and Arstan Whitebeard might have been carved of stone.

 _Swallow your pride_ , Dany thought miserably, _this is what being a Queen is._

“When will the Unsullied be ready?” she asked.

When the interpreter spoke these words to the Great Master, his eyes glistened with greed and success. They agreed the details soon after; Dany would bring one of her dragons to the main square tomorrow morning, Kraznys would bring the Unsullied and the whip which would grant her ownership of the slaves. The Great Master also gave Dany the interpreter, as a token of his goodwill. The girl looked a little hurt, but left her master’s side nonetheless.

Dany left the meeting with a bad taste in her mouth. As soon as they left the pyramid, Ser Jorah turned a pair of burning eyes towards her.

“The dragons?” he asked, “Khaleesi, there must be another way.”

“There is no other way,” Dany replied, still miserable, “If there was, do you not think I could have found it?”

“Ser Jorah is right,” Arstan Whitebeard said, “Leave Astapor, Your Grace. There are other, cheaper ways of gaining swords. Dozens of sellsword companies roam the Free Cities, and many of them will swear themselves to you at the mere mention of conquest, of riches after Westeros is won.”

“Sellswords are fickle,” Dany argued, “I will lose them at the first sign of trouble.”

But Arstan was not finished, “Westeros will never fall to a slave army,” he warned, “and its lords will never follow a slaver queen.”

Dany rounded on him, “I am no slaver.”

“And yet here we are.”

Dany ground her teeth, before turning to Strong Belwas, “Tell your squire to mind his tongue. I have spoken. And I am the Queen.”

She swept away, leaving them behind her, the interpreter – who later introduced herself as Missandei – hurrying behind.

The dawn brought naught but the screeches of Drogon, Dany’s largest dragon, as he was chained at the neck and pushed into a cage. He fought desperately against the bars of his prison, and snarled at any who came near, save for Dany. She did her best to soothe him, but he seemed to know what was going on.

The cage was carried to the square by Jhogo and Aggo, two of Dany’s bloodriders. She had initially wanted several lower-level Dothraki to carry Drogon, but, as staunch supporters of the late Khal Drogo, Jhogo and Aggo had both volunteered to carry his namesake.

Drogon made a frightful noise all the way to the square, and Dany had to look back every few moments to make sure that he was alright. Ser Jorah rode up beside her, and spoke with great concern.

“Are you sure this is right, Khaleesi?”

“Ser Jorah,” Dany smiled, “Have you ever doubted me?”

His lined face softened, and she reassured him a little more.

Finally, they arrived in the square, and Dany’s breath was taken away. Eight thousand Unsullied soldiers stood to attention before her. Great Master Kraznys stood with a couple of slaves, ready to carry Drogon back to his pyramid. He grinned horridly when he saw Dany approach, and held out a whip.

Dany came forward, and took the whip. It was heavier than she thought, and the handle was carved in the shape of a golden harpy. She looked at it, then to the Unsullied before her.

“Will they obey me now?” she didn’t turn to look at Kraznys, who was now holding the end of Drogon’s leash, having taken the dragon out of his cage.

“ _Tell the Westerosi bitch that the Unsullied are hers._ ”

Dany smiled, ignoring Missandei’s translation. She held the whip high, and called out in high, clear, fluid Valyrian.

“ _Unsullied!_ ” her voice rang out across the square, “ _Present me your arms!_ ”

They did so, and only then did Great Master Kraznys notice that something was wrong. He turned to look at her, shock creeping across his slimy features. Dany smiled coldly at him, and he stuttered out broken words.

“ _Y-you?”_ Kraznys spluttered “ _You speak Valyrian?_ ”

Daenerys turned towards him, and spoke in his tongue, “ _I am Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. I have the blood of Old Valyria in my veins. And you would do well not to mock me._ ”

Great Master Kraznys looked as though he was about to retort, but Dany looked to her dragon before he could.

“ _Dracarys_.”

Drogon spit a torrent of fire at the Great Master, his screams rising over the dragon’s screeches. Ser Jorah, Missandei, Arstan and Strong Belwas all looked at her in amazement. Dany turned back to the Unsullied, and lifted her whip into the air.

“ _Unsullied!_ ” she cried, and they stood to attention, “ _Slay the Great Masters! Purge Astapor of their kind. But kill no slave. We will have justice!_ ”

The few Great Masters dotted around the square heard her words, and turned to flee, but they were struck down in an instant, spears sprouting from their chests. A few begged for their lives, some even tried to command the Unsullied to turn their spears to Daenerys, but it made no difference. By noon, the streets were filled with the corpses of the once-Great Masters. Astapor was burning, but almost no slaves had been slain. Dany told them that they had no need to fear enslavement again, and that they were free to seek their own way.

Ser Jorah came to her in the central square, and stood beside her, hand on the pommel of his sword. A proud smile crossed his features, “And now, Khaleesi? Where to now?”

Dany turned her eyes to the north, and uttered one, simple word.

“Yunkai.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	14. Davos III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stag meets the Wolf, and the Common Knight observes the most important day in the war...

DAVOS

“Row faster, row for the true King!”

Axell Florent’s words were likely lost on the dozens of rowers on-board _Black Betha_ , as they thundered towards King’s Landing for the second time in a year. Davos prayed to the Seven that this battle would not end like the last.

He closed his eyes and the images of his four eldest sons swam before his mind. Davos smiled, remembering the days when they were young, and felt his age when he remembered that they had been grown men a year ago. Then their images were consumed in flames and screams, and Davos’ eyes snapped open.

 _That won’t happen again. Believe in your king_.

The winds had been as favourable as Melisandre had predicted, much to Davos’ frustration. He looked across to where she stood; at the prow of the boat, looking out over the turbulent waters of Blackwater Bay. Her long red hair whipped in the fierce wind, and Davos thought she looked rather like a goddess; as though she could stand in that position for eternity and never be moved.

Almost as though she could read his mind, Melisandre turned and beckoned the Onion Knight towards her. Davos grunted angrily and strode towards the prow.

“You are afraid, my Lord.” Melisandre’s voice was soft as ever, yet Davos still heard it over the roar of the waves and the shouts of the Florent knight.

“This wouldn’t be the first time His Grace has lost a battle in these waters,” Davos replied wearily, “I wouldn’t say afraid, more cautious.”

“You fear for the King’s life,” Melisandre purred in that strange accent of hers, “but you need not fret, Lord Seaworth. He is the Lord’s Chosen, and the sinful Lannisters will kneel before him or be crushed.”

Davos wished he shared the priestess’ optimism, but he could not dismiss the cold feeling that lay within his heart. Stannis had lost here, and with better odds too. He voiced these concerns to Melisandre, who laughed them off breezily.

“Have faith, my Lord,” her eyes locked on his, and Davos saw fire within them, “R’hllor has shown me a great triumph on the field today, yet also a great tragedy behind the walls of King’s Landing.”

Davos misliked the sound of that, “What do you mean?”

The Red Woman almost smiled as she said the next words, “Dark wings, dark words my Lord. Dark wings, dark words.”

She left him at the prow with that, leaving him to ponder the words that he had just heard. Davos did not like to think of himself as a particularly superstitious man, yet that phrase had proven true many times during his journeys. _Whose wings? Whose words?_

He shook his head to clear it, and turned back to the bow of the boat where his second in command stood, holding _Black Betha_ ’s course steady. Davos relieved the man for a moment, and let him go down belowdecks. The man was clearly tired and needed rest. Davos suddenly thought it odd that he neither wanted nor seemed to need to sleep; his stomach was a wriggling pit of vipers that threatened to consume his insides.

He was about to turn away and try to find Stannis, when something caught his eye. A flash of gold caused Davos to turn towards the fast approaching coastline. When he realised what he was looking at his eyes went wide as dishes.

_Gods be good…_

The Lannisters had made a rush from King’s Landing, and the Young Wolf’s lines were buckling under the might of Tywin Lannister’s surprise attack. Davos stood frozen for a moment, his mouth hanging open, before he leapt into action. He bellowed at his men to row as though their lives depended on it – which they very likely did – before rushing belowdecks to speak with his King.

Stannis had come over to _Black Betha_ on the third day of their voyage, saying that he wanted to be with his advisors, and he told them that the _Whirlwind_ was well in hand. Stannis had taken the ship from Salladhor Saan, the pirate lord, and renamed and repainted the ship, promising to repay the rightful owner once the battle was over and he sat the Iron Throne.

But that eventuality was looking less and less likely every moment.

“Your Grace!” Davos cried as he burst into Stannis’ cabin.

The King looked up sharply. He had been poring over some maps with Melisandre, Ser Rolland Storm and Ser Richard Horpe, two men that many favoured as the next Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“My Lord Hand,” Stannis spoke curtly, “is something amiss?”

“The Lannisters,” Davos was breathless, his heart pounding in his ears, “have begun an assault on the northern forces! The Stark boy is overwhelmed!”

A flurry of emotions crossed the King’s face in that instant. Confusion, understanding and worry were soon replaced with an iron determination, and Davos felt like he was waiting for what came next, no matter what else.

Stannis turned to Ser Rolland and Ser Richard, “See that the fleet arrive at the beach as soon as possible. We do not turn back today.”

The two knights nodded, before striding from the room. Stannis spoke again, this time to Melisandre

“What have you seen in your fires, my Lady?”

Melisandre told Stannis all that she had told Davos, but then she spoke more, “This battle decides the way the war against the dark will be fought,” Melisandre’s voice was hushed, carrying none of the extravagance that it usually did, “the fates of thousands will be made and unmade on this battlefield. Hush now, the _valonqar_ approaches.”

_Valonqar?_

“The little brother,” Stannis said softly, “High Valyrian, yes? Is it me, then? What do I do?”

“That is all the flames will tell me,” Melisandre’s voice was barely a whisper, “Now attend to your army, my King. You will have need of your sword.”

Stannis gritted his teeth, and Davos followed him out onto the deck. Three hundred fighting men were assembled at the front of the ship, each one a veteran of the last Battle of the Blackwater. Stannis nodded grimly at them.

“Today is not the day for speeches,” the King’s voice rang out across the boat, and Davos felt as though it could be heard all across the armada, “Today is the day for battle, for blood, for death. But it will not be our death. Today we take back what is ours. Today we are victorious. Today we exact vengeance for those who have died for our cause. Come with me and take this city!”

The roar that accompanied these words was immense, and Davos felt himself buoyed by the strength and passion of his King’s words. Stannis drew Lightbringer and the fabled sword blazed through the air.

The next thing Davos knew, they were on the beach, and they were _running_. He had his own sword out, and he was vaguely aware of Ser Meryn Storm at one side and Stannis at the other. He heard Ser Richard Horpe roaring at the men to form up into lines and he saw Ser Rolland Storm bull through those lines to be at Stannis’ side when the battle was joined.

And then they met the Lannister rear.

Davos didn’t even register that he was about to kill someone until he felt the dull _thunk_ of metal on flesh, and heard the gurgle of blood spurting from a man’s face. The next man was harder to kill, because Davos actually saw his face, saw scared blue eyes looking out at him from underneath an iron halfhelm.

Beside him, Ser Meryn slew men left and right, tearing their corpses apart with his sword. His shield – which displayed a purple tulip – was as much of a weapon as his blade, crushing bodies with powerful strokes. Davos tried very hard not to look to the left too much.

Ser Rolland was much the same on the right. His sword blurred through the air and he attacked Westermen with unparalleled savagery. Davos knew that his brother had been slain on this very field not one year ago, and every death was in Lord Bryce Caron’s name.

Somehow, despite his not wearing a helmet, Stannis had not been harmed. The front of his mail was splattered with blood, and his face had not escaped the flow either. His sword still shone in the early morning light, yet Davos still felt a chill of fear when he saw it. He didn’t have time to look long, as he was separated from his King by the sheer number of Lannister men before him.

He took a man’s arm off at the elbow before slamming the pommel of his sword into the same man’s face. Davos then spun, arching his sword above him and down…

…into another man’s shield. The fighter was a big man, his shield likely scavenged off of an earlier battlefield. It was oak, and Davos’ sword was wedged deep within the wood. His stomach dropped when he realised that he couldn’t get loose. The Westerman smiled coldly, raising his own sword, ready to cut down and slice Davos in half.

He didn’t get the chance, as a long piece of metal grew from his chest. The man gurgled in surprise and looked down. The sword slid back through his body and the man collapsed, taking Davos’ sword with him.

Davos looked at his saviour with blank eyes, but his mouth turned up to a slight grin when he saw Ser Meryn standing there, breathless and covered in blood but alive.

“Are you alright, m’lord?”

“I’m good,” Davos replied shakily, not believing it for one second, “I’m okay, I think.”

Meryn looked at him with cobalt eyes, and smiled kindly, “Take his sword, m’lord. You’ll have need of it.”

Davos obeyed numbly, prying the sword from the man’s cold, dead hands. He swallowed nervously, forcing the bile down. As he took the time to stand still, seemingly apart from the chaos around him, Davos saw that the soil ran red with blood.

“Stay close m’lord,” Ser Meryn jolted Davos back to reality with his gravelly voice, “I’ll see you through this.”

And by the gods he did. The battle raged for so long Davos felt like he’d aged a hundred years. He wasn’t sure how many men fell before Ser Meryn Storm, but it felt as though the big knight was invincible. Davos killed his fair share of men too, but he took no joy in it; much as he knew that these men had rejected the true king, he couldn’t help but see his sons in every green boy’s corpse that he stepped over.

Davos was engaged in a brutal duel with a man-at-arms with a frankly ridiculously big axe when he heard a cacophony of high-pitched screams. He wheeled around, but regretted the action a moment later when he was knocked to the ground by his opponent. The man-at-arms stood over the Onion Knight, laughing gleefully at his prize. Davos closed his eyes and murmured a prayer.

But the axe blow never came. Davos opened his eyes and nearly screamed himself. Feasting on man-flesh was an enormous grey wolf. What scared Davos more than the brute though, for he had seen all manner of horrors during his life, was the boy who straddled the wolf’s back. He was strongly-built and wore dirtied plate armour. Nestling upon his auburn curls was a bronze crown adorned with twelve iron spikes.

_The King in the North…_

Robb Stark rode his direwolf up to Davos, who scrambled to his feet. He was a comely youth, and Davos had no trouble believing that he was every inch the Northern hero men made him out to be.

“That’s an onion on your breast,” Stark’s voice had a kingly strength, but also a kindliness to it, “isn’t it?”

“A-aye, Your Grace.”

The boy smiled, “Then I name you Davos Seaworth, knight in the company of Stannis Baratheon.” he put forward a hand, “Well met, Ser.”

Davos took the hand, “The King’s Hand now, Your Grace,” _too many damn kings_ , “but I thank you for saving me all the same.”

“No need for that.”

_Oh really?_

Then the King in the North turned serious, and asked Davos about Stannis’ plans. He especially wanted to know the King’s tactics and numbers at the battle, and Davos told him what their strategy had been. The Young Wolf accepted this with a stern grimness, before confiding in Davos that he had no idea what was going on in the battle.

“You just sort of lose sense of what’s happening with everyone else,” Robb said when he and Davos began moving towards the central column of Lannister fighters, “until all that’s left is you and the people you have to kill.”

Davos didn’t reply, and the Young Wolf spoke no more when they reached the Lannisters. In the corner of his eye, Davos noticed several warriors dancing in and out of view, shielding Robb Stark from any attacks he couldn’t defend himself from. He saw a huge youth with a roaring giant on his shield, a mailed girl with a bear on her breast, a surprisingly nimble boy carrying the twin towers of Frey. Davos had never realised Robb Stark had such a loyal and devoted guard.

It took him a few moments, but Davos soon realised that they were moving forward against the Lannister charge, towards the walls of King’s Landing.

 _We’re winning!_ He thought, almost triumphantly.

A roar came from behind, and Davos saw the Northern cavalry, led by a grizzled riverlord in black armour, charge the Lannisters’ western flank. Screams flew up into the air, and Davos heard the voices of a dozen lords urging their men to stand strong.

 _No use for that_.

Suddenly, they came upon three men with the Baratheon sigil. Richard Horpe and Rolland Storm stood either side of their king, repelling each and every scarlet-clad swordsman that came near. Stannis wore no helm, and his face was splattered with gore. He held himself funny, leaning over to the side. Davos rushed to his king’s side.

Stannis looked at his Hand, then to the King in the North, and grimaced, “Stark.”

“Your Grace.”

Robb Stark proffered a hand, and Stannis shook it, the King in the Narrow Sea taking in his rival’s stature and crown. “I see you do not fear an arrow through the eye.”

“I feel better if my men can see me, and I think they do to.”

Stannis’ mouth twitched, almost into an admiring smile, and the two kings talked a while on the states of their armies. Stannis told Robb everything Davos had not already said, and the Young Wolf spoke of his own men, saying that they would not be able to survive a retreat.

“We win this today or we die tomorrow.” He said solemnly, and Stannis nodded grimly.

“I know the feeling.”

Then, turning away from each other, each King raised his sword and pointed towards the city, bellowing loud enough to wake the dead, ordered an attack. Davos pressed forward with the howl of the direwolf at his back, pressed into a wall of scarlet and gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	15. Tyrion II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Halfman makes a choice.

TYRION

Even from up on the walls Tyrion could tell that the battle wasn’t going well. Father had been so confident at seeing the northern host outside their walls, and had seized the opportunity. Tyrion remembered the fear he’d felt waking up four weeks ago and seeing hundreds – no, _thousands_ of grey direwolf banners lining Blackwater Bay. It wasn’t clear how many men Stark had, but it was clearly more than Tyrion expected.

Lord Tywin had sent a raven along the Roseroad to alert Mace Tyrell to the danger, but they’d had no reply. With any luck, the Lord of Highgarden wasn’t far, and riders had been dispatched from nearby castles. However, with no reply and stores already running low, Tywin had been forced to clear the Stark boy out himself. He hadn’t wanted to lead the army, in case things did go wrong, so was in the Red Keep with his generals, receiving reports on the hour, every hour.

A large portion of the Tyrell-Lannister army had remained within the city – Lord Tyrell said they were to guard his daughter and assure the safety of the King, but Tyrion was too shrewd to believe that. As was Lord Tywin, who stated in private, “Guard his daughter. Aye, guard her from our sheathed swords and kind hospitality.”

As the fourth week of siege rolled around, Tywin began marshalling the defence of the largest city on the continent. Tyrion, having already once completed this task, would have felt sorry for his father if not for this farce of a marriage he was to take part in. He found his mind wandering to his bride-to-be. The girl was a deal more comely than any of Tywin’s other ideas for his son’s betrothed, and she’d been innocent enough when the two had met in Winterfell. Her time with Joffrey had only served to kill that innocence in its cradle, and the poor girl hadn’t even known until Eddard Stark’s head had become estranged from his body.

He liked her well enough – how could he not, such a sweet-tempered young thing – and, had she been older, he would have wanted her, as lecherous dwarves often do. However, he couldn’t bring himself to admit to either of those things. The poor girl deserved someone as sweet and as fair as she, not a misshapen, drunken Lannister. He pitied her, almost as much as he tended to pity himself.

Now his father’s knights rode forth into the field of battle, into a field of death. Tyrion winced as he saw them cut down by Robb Stark’s soldiers, but just as many Northmen were falling to gilded spears, or so he hoped. It was cruel of the gods, he supposed, to bring poor Sansa’s brother so close to victory, and her so close to rescue, only to have that rescue lit on fire by the golden lion.

Unfortunately, the wolf and the lion hadn’t been alone on the field of battle that day.

Tyrion knew the day was lost the Northern troops fanned out into battle lines. He had never seen so many banners, and his stomach roiled when he saw the blue cockerel of Swyft, the three beetles of Bettely, the unicorn of Brax and half a dozen other banners sworn to House Lannister. There weren’t many Westermen in Robb Stark’s army, but there were enough to send Tywin Lannister into a black rage.

Roughly half of the army had been mounted, likely supplied by Edmure Tully and his bannermen. Tyrion wondered if his former captor, the Lady Catelyn, was down there. She had been known to ride with her son’s host, but whether or not she was still with them was up for debate.

Things only worsened when half a hundred southron ships appeared in Blackwater Bay, all flying a flaming heart. It appeared that Stannis Baratheon had come for vengeance.

He also would have laughed at Joffrey’s reaction if the boy didn’t insist on taking himself so seriously all the time. The Boy King’s face purpled as his ‘uncle’s’ forces joined the fray.

“I thought we broke them,” he snapped petulantly at Tyrion, “Grandfather _told_ me Stannis was broken.”

“And perhaps he was,” Tyrion replied tersely, “But it seems that the Young Wolf has won the affections of your dear uncle.”

Joffrey paled, and struggled to keep himself calm, “But we’ll win, won’t we? Grandfather’s the greatest mind in Westeros, and I’m the true king. We _have_ to win!”

“It seems that your lord grandfather has been outwitted and outmanoeuvred by a boy of fifteen,” Tyrion sighed, pinching what remained of his nose, “And I don’t think the gods give a shit who sits on that throne of yours. Neither will Stannis Baratheon once he marches through those gates. You’ve heard what he says about your mother and Uncle Jaime.”

Joffrey’s hand lashed out and caught Tyrion on the side of the head. The dwarf knocked his head on the crenel, and glared up at his nephew. Joffrey was purple with rage, “Speaking slander about a member of the royal family is treason, _Imp!_ ” he snarled, and Tyrion had to force himself not to slap the little shit right back.

“As your lord uncle, I _am_ a member of the royal family, no?” Tyrion did his best to flash Joffrey a grin, “And I spoke no slander, only made reference to the… terrible lies that our enemies spread.”

That seemed to satisfy Joffrey, who turned once more to the battle.

_Idiotic as well as ill born. You do work wonders, don’t you Cersei?_

Tyrion motioned towards Bronn, who stepped forward. The commander of the gold cloaks looked nervous, and Tyrion knew why. If they lost this battle, Bronn would most likely lose his position, favour at court, and possibly his head. It was only the thousand gold dragons and forty acres of land in the Westerlands that ensured the former sellsword’s loyalty.

 _A sellsword never changes his livery, I suppose,_ Tyrion thought ruefully.

“Ser Bronn,” Tyrion spoke calmly, “send a message to Maegor’s Holdfast instructing the women of court to barricade the doors. Get as many smallfolk as you can into the Great Sept and ensure that the streets are secure.”

He pulled the sellsword aside, and spoke quietly, “Make sure the gold cloaks are ready for whatever happens. If we lose this battle, my father and sister must remain inside the Red Keep.”

Bronn nodded, and Tyrion was ever grateful for a sellsword ally. Most others in court would throw him straight in the dungeon, but Bronn was no stranger to treachery. He wanted to survive this day just as much as Tyrion did, and betraying House Lannister would guarantee that, if things turned out that way.

The sellsword nodded and went to go.

“And Bronn? Good luck.”

For the first time since they’d met, Bronn had no quip to respond to Tyrion’s words with. He simply nodded, and left silently. The Imp supposed that there were some small mercies in this world.

“Imp.”

Tyrion sighed once more, and abandoned all thought of mercies as he faced his nephew, “Yes, Your Grace?”

“You came up with a plan to save King’s Landing when my uncle first attacked,” Joffrey clearly remembered the wildfire, and the gleam in his emerald eyes suggested that he wanted to see it again, “Surely you have some other trickery to work this time.”

Tyrion lowered his head in a gesture of deference, hoping against hope that a spear would somehow find its way up the walls and into Joffrey’s throat, “I fear that I was not privy to the councils of my lord father and his generals. If I were, I would no doubt have suggested a few ideas. My lord father doesn’t seem to like my counsel as much as you, see?”

Joffrey frowned, “But I _don’t_ like your counsel.”

“How very like your mother you are.”

Tyrion ignored the king’s sputters of idiocy, and turned back to the battle. There was a clear shift in the tide, and Tyrion’s heart sank all the more. Robb Stark’s united rebel army numbered nearly seventy thousand, far more than Tywin Lannister could ever hope to raise from the Crownlands. Even an idiot could tell the day was lost.

“Ser Balon,” Joffrey turned to the silent figure of his Kingsguard, “gather all the remaining troops in the city. I’ll lead the reserves out to fight.”

_Or perhaps it’s not so obvious._

“Your Grace,” Tyrion cried, anxious for the first time about Joffrey’s safety, “Perhaps it would be more prudent for you to remain inside the castle. There are savages out on that battlefield. Your mother would never forgive me if I gave her your corpse.”

“Let her rage,” Joffrey snapped, “The wails of women are naught to me. The Northmen call Robb Stark a hero king, they practically worship him. Savage as he is, he seems to inspire some measure of loyalty in his men. I shan’t have it said that I cowered behind my mother’s skirts as the battle for my kingdom raged.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to object, but closed it after some thought. The outcome of the day would not change, he supposed, and, with some luck, Joffrey’s appearance might, just might, rally the troops. He doubted this, but it was nice to have a little irrational hope.

_Not even a dragon could win this battle for us._

Tyrion nodded slowly, before turning to Bronn. “Ser Balon, I put the king’s life directly in your hands. If he dies, as do you. If I do not see to it, the Queen Regent certainly will,” Bronn opened his mouth to argue, but Tyrion cut him off, “I want a guard around him, do you hear? Thirty men, and the remaining Kingsguard.”

Ser Balon Swann clenched his jaw, but nodded nonetheless, “As my lord commands.”

 _This may not be his first battle,_ Tyrion thought ruefully, _but perhaps it will be his last._

Tyrion turned back to the battle, and murmured a silent prayer to the gods he did not believe in. Robb Stark’s host had formed a sort of clam-shape around the Lannisters, pushing the golden army back every second. Stannis’ force – which mainly consisted of infantry – supplanted them here and there, wherever the line was thinnest.

Tyrion searched for any sign of a Lannister commander, but with little success. The battle was too chaotic to be sure, but Tyrion couldn’t spot anyone who was likely to be of any help to the Lannister cause. The sky was darkening, with huge thunderclouds overhead. A crack of lightning ran like a whip over the Red Keep, and a light rain began to fall.

_And now the rains weep o’er his home…_

Finally, the Lannister army broke completely. The freeriders and sellswords Lord Tywin had brought in on his journey west were the first to go, although it was a wonder they’d stayed this long. Next to go were the peasants, flinging down their chipped swords and broken spears and begging for mercy. Some gave it, but most Northmen were not so charitable.

The line disintegrated, and Tyrion saw that the great army was no more than a hundred yards from the city gates. He cursed violently, and begged the gods would grant Joffrey one single moment of clear thought; to sensibly stand by while the reserves rode out to their deaths.

The sound of the drawbridge opening cut through Tyrion’s thoughts, and he watched as Joffrey rode out at the head of the reserves. There were a little under two thousand now, thanks to Tyrion and Bronn’s purges of those loyal to Janos Slynt or Petyr Baelish. Oh, how Tyrion wished he had not been so thorough.

Joffrey was clear to see, his gold-and-crimson armour so reminiscent of Jaime’s glistening in the downpour. His horse rode swiftly, a pure white courser, never shying away from the wall of enemy warriors. There was something to be said for that, Tyrion was sure, but fools always seem brave.

The horse kept going until a thousand arrows feathered its hide. Tyrion quickly lost sight of his nephew, the boy pulled from his saddle soon after getting caught up in the press of bodies. The Kingsguard knights fell soon after, trampled beneath Northern boots. While Joffrey’s final charge had made a small dent in the unstoppable wave of Northern fury, the ground was made up in a matter of moments.

 _I’ve got to end this_ , Tyrion realised. He dispatched a runner to Bronn, telling him to seal off Maegor’s and the Red Keep for the foreseeable future. Then he waddled towards a gatehouse, grinning lopsidedly at the sentry without. He told the boy to run and find his family. Hopefully his sword would stop the looters. The boy hurried off.

_Smart move._

Tyrion picked up a trumpet that rested on the gatehouse wall, and blew into it with all his might. By now the army had stopped moving forward, and what few Lannister soldiers that still lived had fled the field.

At the front of the great host stood four men. One was solidly built, broad of shoulder and strong of back. He wore furs over his armour and held a greatsword in his hands. A great grey direwolf prowled at his heels, and Tyrion named him Robb Stark. On the Young Wolf’s right stood a man so large Tyrion feared that the giants had returned from Beyond the Wall. Beside the Northmen stood Stannis Baratheon, a man gaunter than Tyrion remembered, his sword shining in the afternoon light. At his side stood another man, though Tyrion could not make him out.

 _Probably some retainer or other_.

Stannis Baratheon came forth, and spoke to Tyrion, his voice booming out across Blackwater Bay, “Who speaks for this city?”

“I, Tyrion of House Lannister.”

“Does the old lion not have the spine to speak to the men who bested him?”

 _Here goes nothing,_ “My father is in the city, but under guard,” Tyrion told the kings, “You will find him and his generals in the Red Keep, surrounded by gold cloaks. The city is yours, my Kings.”

Then, Robb Stark stepped forward, “My lord father was told much the same, before he was put in the black cells.”

“You have an army,” Tyrion retorted, “Ned Stark did not. I swear that I have no betrayal in my heart. None for you, at least.”

That seemed to satisfy them, and Robb Stark then swore that his men would harm none in the city, save their foes. Tyrion accepted, and then told the men below to open the gates.

 _We have lost, at long last_ , he said to himself as he walked towards the Red Keep to find Bronn, _now we shall see what their words are worth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	16. Robb III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stag and the Wolf meet, and a peace is made.

ROBB

The large room in the Red Keep where King Joffrey’s counsellors usually sat and ruled for the boy king felt oddly empty, and Robb shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was very conscious of how young he was in comparison to the man he shared the room with. He’d never felt like this with his Northman soldiers and vassal lords, as he’d proved his worth early on, and shown his strength as a true Stark when he punished the Greatjon for his defiance at Winterfell.

Robb had been expecting Stannis to look a little like his elder brother, but he’d been wrong in that regard. Where Robert had had a wide, ruddy face that clearly showed comfortable living, Stannis was pale and drawn, and Robb was reminded of Roose Bolton when he looked into Stannis’ dour expression and unflinching blue gaze.

To both men’s surprise, the Imp had stayed true to his word, even having the nerve to greet them right in the centre of the city, reporting that Tywin and his generals had been taken to the black cells, and the Queen Regent and her children were under house arrest. Robb had asked as to the condition of his sister, but the Imp had seemed almost too embarrassed to speak.

Robb had wanted to rest and feed his men, congratulating them on their victory, but Stannis had immediately ordered that they draw up a treaty which would then be signed by all the major lords of the realm. He had said that he wanted to establish a lasting order in Westeros, one that would not be disrupted every few years. Robb had agreed very heartily to this idea; he had no desire to come south again for a long time.

“I intend to send out ravens on the morrow to Sunspear, Highgarden and the Eyrie,” Stannis said at last, “They will come to the capital and bend the knee within a moon’s turn or be branded traitors.”

Robb nodded to this, but Stannis was not finished.

“However, tomorrow you will publically come before me on the Iron Throne and swear me your fealty.”

Robb didn’t remember standing up, and he wasn’t quite sure whether or not he knocked his chair on the ground, but he did jab a finger at the southron king, and he felt his voice raise to a shout. “I helped you gain your throne and you deny me mine? I was to leave the Seven Kingdoms with those who named me king, those were the terms I sent to you in return for my support.”

Stannis ground his teeth, but did not flinch in the face of the bulkier Northman, “Your father named me a king, an act that saw him dead. You would dishonour him by undoing his final act.”

Robb’s hands clenched into fists, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from punching the southron king. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper, “My father was an honourable man, perhaps the most honourable this country has ever seen. Don’t you dare use him against me again, do you understand?”

“I don’t think you understand who you’re talking to, boy –”

“No.” that one word was enough to silence Stannis Baratheon, “It is you who fails to understand. My people named me their king, rejecting three hundred years of southron rule. My ancestor only knelt to the dragons so that he could spare his people’s lives. No Stark has ever been beaten by a southron king. You have no right to the North. Not anymore.”

“I withstood the forces of the Reach for a year. I defeated the _Ironborn_ at sea. I survived the wrath of Tywin Lannister. I am not like any king that has come before. I am no Targaryen.”

“Yet you burn those that oppose you,” Robb snarled at the older man, and that caused a reaction, “and you follow a God of Fire. You claim to be Azor Ahai, the Prince That Was Promised. Only a Targaryen believes _those_ prophecies.”

Stannis glared at Robb, before sitting down heavily. There was silence for a while, before Stannis began to speak in a broken voice, “Take the North. You are a Stark, it is your birthright.”

“And the lands that I conquered? The riverlords? What of them?”

“Mine. Name yourself King of the First Men, King of Winter. Leave the Andal lands to the Andals.”

 _Was his mother a fishmonger? He haggles worse than any I’ve met before_.

“The riverlords named me a king just as much as the Northmen,” Robb said cautiously, “and many of their sons and brothers bled in my war. My uncle will be Lord of Riverrun within a year, and he was one of those who called me King first.”

Stannis laughed mirthlessly, before agreeing. He did not laugh, however, when Robb mentioned the future of the Westerlands.

“Do you expect me to hand over the entire west? You’re a fool if you think I’ll do that.”

“And you are a fool if you think you’ll take them from me,” Robb growled, “I could have taken the Iron Throne, did you know that? I could have taken the Iron Throne and branded you a traitor, the same as Joffrey. But I didn’t. I won the Westerlands fairly. Let me take those three regions, crush the Ironborn and leave you with the rest.”

Stannis ground his teeth, “I am a king –”

“As am I,” Robb retorted, “and if the Westerlands did not kneel before you once, they will not do so again.”

“What makes you so sure they will follow you?”

“They do not need to follow me,” Robb replied, his heart somewhat heavy. _Galbart is a good man, but the Westerlands need someone they have followed before_ , “But their liege lord will, if I pardon him.”

“ _No!_ ”

Stannis shout, combined with his fist on the table, caused the candles to rattle in their stands. His jaw trembled with rage, and his breathing was heavy.

“If you think I’ll let you leave here with the Kingslayer as Lord of Casterly Rock, or even that _abomination_ that claimed my throne –”

“Gods, do you really think I’d do that?” Robb almost laughed with incredulity, “I meant the Imp!”

That seemed to stump Stannis for a moment, before he spoke, his surprise matching Robb’s, “Your mother once held the Imp prisoner, claiming he tried to murder your brother. And you’d pardon him?”

Robb bowed his head. _Gods forgive me. I hope that my heart is right_ , “The gods found him innocent. Who am I to argue with the divine? He will, of course, have to give us gold in payment for his family’s actions.”

Stannis looked troubled, but he soon came around. Talk then turned to the remaining Lannisters. Tywin would of course be executed in time, along with Joffrey the Ill-Born. After a brief discussion, Robb grudgingly accepted taking Tommen Waters to ward, whilst his sister remained in Dorne under the protection of House Martell. Stannis agreed to give Cersei Lannister a trial, but pointed out that there would be little need for one. She would likely be executed just the same. Then came their supporters and catspaws. Robb didn’t even think to object when Stannis ordered the executions of Petyr Baelish, Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle. There was to be an inquest into the actions of Gregor Clegane and Armory Lorch. Ser Kevan Lannister and his sons would be dealt with during the trial process.

“What of the Kingslayer?” Robb asked, after noting an important absence from Stannis’ rant. “His oath is for life, after all.”

Stannis made a noise halfway between a growl and a cough, “I will not let that man command my Kingsguard. He will die.”

“Noble men are given the chance of service at the Wall.”

“Do you pity the Kingslayer?”

Robb sighed, “My father would give him the chance, and so must I.”

Reluctantly, the southron king nodded. He stepped outside of the room for a moment, and requested the presence of a scribe. A man hurried in a few moments later, carrying an inkpot wrought in the shape of a golden lion. Stannis gritted his teeth but made no objection. They bade the scribe write down the exact terms of the agreement between the two kingdoms of Westeros. Stannis and Robb then printed the paper with their seals, leaving a space for Tyrion Lannister to print a golden lion, accepting their terms.

“What will you do next?”

Robb chewed Stannis’ question over a moment, thinking deeply. “I will rid my shores of the Ironborn. I am to wed a lady of House Frey, and there are rumours of wildlings massing at the Wall. I doubt I will be bored in the coming months. And you? What will you do now that the Iron Throne is yours?”

“I will scour this city of the rot my brother allowed to fester, and I will prepare myself for whatever truth is in these rumours of Daenerys Targaryen across the sea.”

Robb nodded, smiling, “If you ever have need of Northern swords, ask and help shall be given. I expect nothing more in return.”

Stannis said nothing to that, but Robb thought he saw half a smile cross his face. The two kings sat in silence until the sun rose on a new day and a new age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	17. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Little Bird waits out the Battle for Westeros

SANSA

Sansa was woken by the sound of a war horn. She sat up in bed and summoned her two maids. The two girls came in, pale and terrified-looking.

“What is it?” she asked, “What’s happening?”

“Lord Tywin is going out to attack the Young Wolf,” the shorter one, Greta, told her, “You’re to come with us, m’lady.”

“It’s alright,” Sansa told them, “I remember the Battle of the Blackwater. We’ll go to Maegor’s Holdfast, and the Queen will protect us.”

 _Would that she were able to protect us_.

Sansa dressed quickly in a simple black dress. She wondered whether the gods drew her to that one, and supposed it would be time for mourning soon, though she wasn’t sure who she would have to mourn for.

The two girls accompanied her to Maegor’s Holdfast, where she was greeted by Cersei Lannister. The Queen Dowager smiled sickeningly, holding a cup of wine in her left hand.

“Sansa!” she beamed, swooping down and kissing each of Sansa’s cheeks, “So good of you to join us. I’d have thought you’d be out there, watching your brother’s fate unfold.”

Sansa dipped her head dutifully, forcing down the tears, “I’d rather not. The sight of battle unnerves me.”

“Of course, dear.” Cersei said absently, before wandering off to speak with Lady Stokeworth, and Sansa was once again alone.

Her eyes wandered the throng of people, but her solitude was broken when someone grabbed onto her arm. Sansa flinched, but it was only Margaery Tyrell, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The girl was but six-and-ten, only three years older than Sansa herself, but she was so much more self-assured than Sansa could ever hope to be.

“Dearest Sansa,” Margaery’s face split into a wide smile, “Come and sit awhile with me and my grandmother.”

“I-I’d like that very much.”

And so the Flower of Highgarden led Sansa to a table removed from the other ladies. Seated at the table was the infamous Queen of Thornes, Margaery’s grandmother. Today Olenna Tyrell wore a resplendent green dress and golden veil. Upon the table was a tray with dates and wine.

“Sit child,” Olenna’s tone, as usual, was kindly yet sharp, so Sansa sat, “I suppose you haven’t had breakfast?”

“No, my Lady.”

Olenna Tyrell humphed and bade one of her servants get Sansa some food from the kitchens. The poor man stuttered a protest, saying that there was a battle, to which Olenna replied, “The battle is _outside_ the city. Gods be good, I’m not asking you to go to the North and get her a Winterfell-cooked meal, to enjoy the comforts of home. _Get!_ ”

Nearly in tears, the poor man dashed away, and Sansa did her best to stifle her laugh, and Olenna’s kind brown eyes brightened. She laid a tiny, wizened hand on Sansa’s own smooth, pale one. Sansa tried to return the smile, but her mouth failed her. Beside her, Margaery sat down, and put her arm around Sansa’s back.

“You’re so strong, I hope you know that my dear,” Margaery said in a low voice, “And we are with you. Whatever happens today, I want you to know that you are not alone.”

“Thank you for your kind words, Your Grace,” Sansa replied brightly, ignoring the empty feeling in her belly, “but after today I will be married, never to be alone again.”

“And what if your brother wins this battle?”

“My brother is –”

“Gods, girl!” Olenna snapped, her patience running thin, “Say what you want for once! The Queen of Tarts is not in this room, and neither is the Spider or that repulsive Lord Baelish. It is only us, you can trust us.”

Sansa looked at Olenna Tyrell with tears in her eyes, “That’s what they said.”

And with that, she stood and left the room, pushing past the servant who had brought her breakfast. She sat at the opposite end of the room to the Tyrell ladies, and buried her head in her hands, forcing back the tears.

She was still sitting alone when they came for her. Two gold-cloaks burst into the room where all the ladies sheltered. Queen Cersei rose, asking the gold-clad men for news, but she was ignored, which Sansa found awfully peculiar. When the two men came to her, and demanded that she come with them, she didn’t want to go. The last time the gold cloaks had come for her had been the day her father was arrested, and Sansa had no desire to replay that particular day.

“Is it my brother?” she asked, “Has he been broken?”

“Come with us, m’lady.” was the cold reply.

So, Sansa went with them, back to the Red Keep. When she realised where they were going, she struggled, and tried to break free. _The royal chambers_ , she thought, _what does Joffrey want of me now?_

One of the gold-cloaks, a tall man, grabbed her arm, but his words were soft and reassuring, “It’s alright, m’lady. You’re safe now.”

Sansa didn’t understand, didn’t want this new trick of Joffrey’s. She struggled again, but his grip was too strong. The other gold-cloak knocked on the thick oak door before them, and a strange voice came from within.

“Enter.”

_That voice… it’s so familiar…_

_Father?_

When they entered the room, Sansa was shocked to see a broad shouldered man with long, curly red hair standing over a table facing away from her. At his side was an empty scabbard, and he wore a boiled leather tunic. He turned to face her, and Sansa gasped in shock.

“ _Robb?_ ”

Her elder brother grinned, and they embraced. He smelled of home and comfort, and his back was stronger than she remembered. It was only when they broke apart that she remembered her courtesies.

“Your Grace,” Sansa dipped her head, but Robb just laughed at her.

“I’m your brother when we’re alone, okay?” he chuckled, “Only a king when we’re in public.”

Sansa smiled sheepishly, but nodded regardless. She asked him about the battle, and Robb told her of its epic scale. He told her that he’d feared the day lost several times, but his men managed to pull through. He thrilled her with the tale of Brynden Tully’s expertly timed cavalry charge, saying that it saved many lives from the Lannister flank. He then told her of the times he’d had on the march, and after that spoke of Winterfell.

“Do you remember the Greatjon?”

Sansa thought back, and the image of a massive, beery man swam up before her, so she nodded, “Yes, but not very well, I’m afraid.”

Robb chuckled again, “He very nearly didn’t come south with us, until Grey Wind convinced him.”

“Robb,” Sansa said worriedly, “What did you do?”

“Gods,” he laughed, “You sound like mother. It was nothing really. He said he’d march his men home if I didn’t put him in the vanguard, and Grey Wind took a finger or two. Now, it’s all I can do to keep him away from me.”

When she laughed, she caught herself, looking worriedly at Robb, who looked as though his sides were splitting. When he saw the mortified expression on her face, he stopped immediately, his azure eyes flashing from mirth to concern. When he reached for her, Sansa flinched and pulled her hand away, but Robb was too fast. He held her hand inside both of his.

“You’re trembling,” he realised, “Gods, Sansa, what did they do to you?”

“It – it’s nothing,” she said hurriedly, “I’m fine.” She pulled her hand away from his, and turned away, “I’m just broken, that’s all.”

Robb murmured something that sounded like “those bastards,” and she felt him come behind her. He didn’t touch her, for which she was amazingly grateful, and his words were tender, not like anything she’d heard in a long time.

“We will make them pay, do you understand?” His voice trembled with emotion, the anger of a true Winter King bleeding into his calming words, “I swear to you, we will make them pay a thousand times over for what they’ve done to you.”

“I’m to marry one.”

“What?” Robb pulled away, that kingly concern back in his eyes. He furrowed his brows in confusion, “I thought your betrothal was set aside, in favour of Margaery Tyrell.”

“Not Joffrey,” Sansa explained, shuddering at the mere mention of his name, “not him.” she took a deep breath, trying to form the words on her tongue, “The Imp. I mean, Lord Tyrion. Lannister. Tyrion Lannister.”

Robb’s hands curled into fists, and Sansa took a step back, before remembering that this was her brother, not Joffrey, not one of _them_. He strode over to the table that he’d been at when she entered, which Sansa now saw was covered in maps, many with crudely drawn lines in places where she was sure no borders existed. Robb began talking to himself, murmuring under his breath, pointing at various different points, before tapping one particular spot on the map. He turned to her.

“When was this marriage announced, and what happened before?”

“I – uh – I,”

“Take all the time you need.” Robb encouraged her, patting a chair. Sansa sat, and began her tale.

She told him about how Joffrey set her aside like she was nothing to him. Not that she wasn’t grateful for being freed, her only regret was that sweet Margaery Tyrell was to be subjected to his cruelty. Sansa then spoke of the secret betrothal that was planned between her and Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thornes, about Sansa and Willas Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden.

“Did you tell anyone about this betrothal?”

“No, not that I…” Sansa trailed off, and Robb prompted her to continue. “Gods be good.”

_I was a fool, just like the Hound said. A bloody, bloody fool._

Sansa looked up from the floor, tears glistening in her eyes, “Petyr. I told Lord Baelish of the betrothal.”

“After what he did to father? Sansa, how could you?”

She flinched, and Robb’s anger abated, at least visibly. She shook her head, trying to remember, “I didn’t tell him, exactly, but I told Ser Dontos, a disgraced knight, but I’m sure he was part of Lord Baelish’s retinue when we came to King’s Landing.”

Only as she said the words did she remember seeing Ser Dontos with Littlefinger the very day she saved his life. _He must have known_ , Sansa realised, _Somehow, he must have known that I would save him from Joffrey._

Robb put his head in his hands, and stared at the wall. Suddenly, he gave a harsh bark of laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

Robb smiled, but this time it was truly warm, “You still haven’t changed. That’s the best thing about you, Sansa. You see what’s good in everyone, or rather, you tend to ignore the bad.”

“Not always. Not with Arya.”

Robb’s face fell, and Sansa immediately felt bad. Not as bad as she felt for Arya though. She hadn’t been seen for nearly a year, if the Lannister were to be believed. Part of Sansa hoped that she had managed to survive on her own and escape the city, but the rational part of her mind knew that it couldn’t be true. Believing Arya was alive just meant more hurt in the long run, and hurt was something Sansa couldn’t bear anymore.

“We’ll find her,” Robb said softly, “If she’s alive, we’ll find her. Then you two will act as sisters and as grown-ups, do you understand?”

Sansa nodded mutely, and there was a knock at the door. Robb went to get it, and spoke a few quiet words with the man on the other side. The voice at the door seemed unsure, and Robb spoke in reassuring tones. Finally, the voice went away, and Robb came back to the table, a letter clasped in one hand.

He opened it and began to read, his eyes growing wider every second. Tears glistened in his eyes, and he looked at Sansa, his mouth opening, then closing, his eyes dropping to continue reading. In the end, it seemed that he could not bear to read on, and he thrust the paper at Sansa, who took it tremulously.

_To Robb Stark, the King Who Lost the North,_

_I write from my home in Pyke, the seat of House Greyjoy. For too long the Starks have looked down their noses at us. They took our empire from us, they took our freedom from us, and they shackled us to that accursed throne when we demanded our independence. But now is a time for vengeance._

_By now, you are aware of my son’s capture of Winterfell, and my daughter’s reaving along the coasts. My brother Victarion has captured Moat Cailin, the gateway to the North. You have no hope of recapturing your home, so I advise you not to waste your men._

_You sent me an envoy with peace terms. I won’t tell you of how she grovelled, begging me for leniency. I won’t tell you what hardships she and her crew suffered in the dungeons of Pyke, but I will tell you her fate;_

_Catelyn Tully is dead. Her naked corpse hangs from the tallest tower in Pyke, the corpses of her ship’s captain and that freakish sworn sword hanging below. Know this Robb Stark: I will do this to every stinking Northman I find, until you submit to me._

_You have until winter to bend the knee, but every moon’s turn that goes by without your reply, I kill five Northmen._

_Balon Greyjoy,_

_True King in the North._

Sansa was speechless. The paper had become splotchy and the ink was running where her tears had landed, her pale face streaked with the slow tracks of tears. She looked at her elder brother, who had swallowed his grief and replaced it with a warrior’s rage.

_Father, then Arya, then Bran and Rickon, and now Mother? Is it only Robb and I left?_

“What will you do?”

“I’m going to make the Lannister’s pay for what they’ve done,” Robb’s voice trembled with rage, “I’m going to march west and I’m going to tear Balon Greyjoy to pieces for what he’s done to our family. And when I’m done with him, Theon, his sister and Victarion Greyjoy are next.”

 _But what if they’re ready for you?_ Sansa asked him in her mind, _What if the next corpse that hangs is yours?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	18. The Sworn Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Lion awaits his trial...

THE SWORN BROTHER

The black cells were even worse than the stories said. They were dirty and dark, and his back ached from the hours of standing. Mind you, it wasn’t much worse than being chained to a post and carted halfway across the bloody country.

_Fucking Starks._

Ser Jaime Lannister shifted uncomfortably, his fetters chafing at his wrists. He bit his tongue to stop from cursing, and grimaced as he felt blood run down his hands. Any more of this, and the maesters would have to amputate his hands. The thought was only half a joke.

Across from him sat Cersei, and she looked just as radiant as ever. Grimy from imprisonment, and furious from defeat, but her golden hair still shone like the sunrise in spring. Cersei’s eyes shone too, but their light was emerald green, the brightest thing in these dark chambers. Jaime could take all other losses, he didn’t even care so much about the battle, now that they were together again. Just like they were meant to be.

They were both chained at the wrists, and, even if they stretched out fully, they were still an arm’s length apart. Jaime would have supposed it was some jape of Stark’s, had the boy been capable of japing. The Young Wolf made Ned Stark look as joyous as that fat fool who’d called himself a king.

They’d had no word from the other prisoners, but Cersei had raged earlier, so Jaime could get a good guess at what happened. From what she had said, the gold cloaks had swarmed the Maidenvault and Maegor’s, arresting all with the surname ‘Lannister’ or any other Westermen. Many had ended up here in the black cells.

 

The silence was complete, save for the _drip-drip-drip_ of water above them. Half a dozen times, Jaime tried to speak, but couldn’t summon the right words from his heart. Finally, he decided there was no point in putting it off any longer.

“Cersei –”

She didn’t even look round, “Are you going to say something clever?”

 _Gods, you sound like Father_.

“No.”

“Good.”

Silence fell once more. Jaime frowned, unsure what to do. For the first time in his life, Cersei was pushing him _away_ , and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what had happened in his absence, save the passage of the war, but something was certainly wrong.

She was looking at him now, and Jaime could make out a cold smile on her perfect features. In the half-light, it looked like a ghoulish reflection of her true mirth. He shivered to see it.

“Cersei, are you… are you alright?” even to him it sounded pathetic, limping.

For her part, Cersei gave a harsh bark of laughter, “How like you, _brother_. Of _course_ I’m alright, cooped up in the very cells I kept Ned Stark before his execution. Do you think the Young Wolf won’t see the symmetry there?”

“It won’t be like that,” Jaime snorted, “He’ll not execute either of us. He certainly hasn’t thought to harm me in all these months.”

“Because he thought he could trade you for his simpleton sister,” Cersei shot back, “Now he’ll have her back, and Stannis Baratheon won’t be as kindly.”

“I thought we’d broken him, anyway.”

“It wasn’t him we needed to break,” was the reply, and Cersei’s voice cracked some, “I tried, you know, I tried to ally with Ned Stark. Stannis knew all along, right from Jon Arryn’s death, he knew. _That’s_ why he fled. Renly, Varys, Littlefinger, they all knew damn them, and they all conspired to turn the realm against us. But Ned Stark was worst of all. Renly didn’t have a claim worth a damn, not while Stannis lived. And who’d believe the word of a eunuch against a daughter of the Rock? Stark was Hand of the King, Robert’s brother in all but blood. We _needed_ him on our side, and what did you do? You turned him against us forever. This is your fault, _Kingslayer_ , I hope you know that.”

Cersei’s final words were almost a scream, and Jaime stared at her in complete shock. She’d never spoken so sharply to him before. She’d never called him ‘Kingslayer’ before. That had been an almost unwritten code between them, that they’d never mention what men called him outside of the four walls where there was only them and their love.

After that, there was only silence. Jaime was left alone with his thoughts – which were almost worse than Cersei’s anger – until the door opened, and the flickering light of a torch.

“Kingslayer,” a familiar voice growled, “Up you get.”

Jaime obeyed, and Brynden Tully unchained Jaime’s wrists. They were almost immediately fettered again, but they found no way to stop his forehead from crunching into Tully’s broad nose. The Blackfish swore loudly, and Jaime allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before his head exploded with agony.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground, his ears ringing. Tully’s face swam into focus, blood dripping down his craggy chin. Beside him stood the seven-foot figure of the Greatjon, glowering down at Jaime.

“You’ll have to help me up, my Lords,” Jaime told them pleasantly, “My head is rather fuzzy.”

“With pleasure.” growled the Greatjon, and Jaime was hoisted roughly onto the big man’s shoulder, as if he weighed no more than a sack of flour.

 _Gods,_ Jaime thought, _this man could give the Mountain a run for his money._

They took him through the winding corridors of the Red Keep, though Jaime couldn’t tell where they were going, what with all the bouncing up and down and the painful jabbing of the Greatjon’s shoulder into his ribs. When the world stopped swimming, he announced that they should probably let him stand, and the stone ground rushed up to meet him. Jaime met it with his own nose, and rolled over with a curse. Luckily, it wasn’t broken, but he still tasted blood on his lips.

He sat up, and smiled bloodily at the two men, “Tell me, did Robb Stark order you to execute me yourselves?”

“The King ordered us to bring you to your trial.”

“You’re doing a marvellous job of it,” Jaime japed, “I thought one must be in one piece for an execution.”

They said nothing to that, merely pulling him to his feet once more, and shoving him towards the throne room. The Blackfish marched him in silence, but the Greatjon mocked him near constantly, mocked Father, mocked Cersei, mocked the entirety of House Lannister.

_Put a sword in my hand, oaf, we’ll see whether you’ll still make japes._

_This lion still has claws._

The door was guarded by men in the grey cloaks of House Stark, something Jaime noted with a wry smile. He wondered what Stannis Baratheon thought of this arrangement, and liked to think it irked the new King in the South.

 _There’s a ring to that, and he’ll mislike that most of all_.

The throne room itself was lined with dozens of soldiers, and also those in court lucky enough to escape the black cells. Jaime saw the Tyrells, puffed-up Mace next to his radiant daughter and equally radiant son. He could have been more surprised, but the Tyrells didn’t seem sure on picking sides in this war; this turning of cloaks did not seem all that out of the ordinary for them.

Ahead of him stood the Iron Throne, the bristling seat of blades Jaime had spent the last seventeen years standing beside. And, of course, one night atop, as the Mad King lay just a few feet below him. Jaime thought back to the words he’d said to Ned Stark all those years ago, as he sat the most coveted seat in Westeros.

“Have no fear, Stark,” a young Jaime spoke in his mind, “I was only keeping it warm for our friend Robert.”

Well, now Robert was not in need of a throne, and neither was Stark. Both were colder than that throne would ever be, though mayhaps not so cold as the man who sat it today.

Stannis Baratheon wore robes of black and gold, with red inlay, and his crown was wrought from red gold, the points twisting like the flames of his Red God. He looked down on Jaime with eyes of coldest blue, his black beard and hair seeming to swallow up all the light in the room. His face was thinner than Jaime remembered, his jaw somehow sterner, his cheeks hollower. Jaime did his best not to crumble under Stannis’ cold gaze.

Beside the Stag King sat the Young Wolf himself; broad and healthy were Stannis was slim and fading. The Crown of Winter rested atop rust-coloured curls, but Stark looked so little like his Tully mother in that moment. His jaw set in a grim line, Jaime couldn’t doubt the boy’s parentage, he looked so like Ned Stark.

“Ser Jaime Lannister,” Stannis spoke in a voice that sounded like steel scraping over stone, “You stand accused of regicide, murder, attempted murder, treason, adultery, and breaking numerous sacred vows.”

Jaime smirked, “Sacred to who? To you and your Red God? To Stark and his trees? What do the Faith say to your red witch?”

“It is customary to address a king as ‘Your Grace’.”

Jaime spat, “I’ll never take you for a king, Stannis, nor you, Stark. I’ve nothing to fear from either of you.”

A smile ghosted over Stannis’ face, “Do you deny the charges lain against you?”

“I deny nothing,” said Jaime, spreading his arms as wide as he could, “I killed the Mad King, though I doubt you or your feckless brother would have spared him. The only murders I committed were in response to threats against my family, my king or my own person. Joffrey is Robert’s son in the sight of all the gods and half the men in this realm, and Cersei was mine long before she was ever your brother’s. As to my vows,” he gave a harsh laugh, “do you know how many vows there are? Defend the king, aye, defend the innocent. What if your king threatens the innocent? No matter what I do, I break a vow. Your judgement means naught to me.”

Silence greeted Jaime’s words. A long moment passed, and Jaime felt all the eyes in the room on his back. He felt the vague presence of his father on his shoulder, and wondered if those words would have made Tywin Lannister proud, had he been there to hear them. He wondered whether or not his father was even still alive. Finally, the silence was broken. Robb Stark leaned forward on his throne, and spoke in the cold voice he reserved for Lannisters.

“Ser Jaime of House Lannister,” he intoned, “King Stannis and I have agreed to make a deal with you. We will allow you to keep your head, if you renounce all ties to your family and make for the Wall, there to spend your days as a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch.”

_The Wall? Freeze my cock off at the edge of the world? Wouldn’t that be convenient?_

He’d never see Cersei again. Then again, the Young Wolf wasn’t like to let her live, and neither was the King in the South. Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella, Father, they’d all end up dead, and Jaime with them.

_A cold life is better than no life at all._

Jaime smiled, “My old sworn brother, Ser Barristan, ofttimes said I ought to swap my white cloak for a black one. Mayhaps I’ll take him at his word. I’ll journey north, Stark. They say they need men at the Wall.”

“You’ll leave at nightfall,” Stark told him, “Many of your father’s men have expressed their wishes to join the black brothers, to spare their own necks most like. The ships depart in an hour, I suggest you make your way to the docks.”

“This way, Kingslayer,” the gruff voice of the Blackfish came up from behind Jaime, and pulled him from the stand. Jaime shook off the Blackfish’s hands, but went anyway. There was no sense doing otherwise, not after swearing to take the black.

They took him outside, and down Aegon’s High Hill, all the way through the city to the docks. There were dozens of ships waiting for them, many flying Stannis’ flaming heart on their sails. Jaime saw the remnants of Joffrey’s fleet being repainted in the black and gold of Baratheon, and felt a pang of remorse for his son’s lost kingdom.

_A Lannister always pays his debts._

_But can we pay this one?_

The captain was a solemn looking man whose name Jaime did not know. He had flowing white hair and beautiful features. He wore the sea-dragon of Velaryon on his breast, though the colours were reversed. The Blackfish scowled at the captain.

“Ser Tully,” the man greeted him, “You’re just in time.”

“You’d have waited for me, Waters,” the Blackfish growled, “Elsewise you’d have to answer to that king of yours.”

Waters smiled, “I’ve been answering to Stannis Baratheon for fifteen years now, Tully, and I’ve heard his prating enough to deliver it myself by heart,” he turned his attention to Jaime, “So, this is the Kingslayer, then? Not so high and mighty now, are you?”

“Fine talk,” Jaime retorted, “For a bastard.”

He’d been prepared for a glare. Not for the fist that followed. Jaime’s head was whipped around, and he rubbed his jaw, knowing that there’d be a bruise there soon enough.

_Not as big as the bruise on his pride._

“Get on the ship,” Waters growled, “Eastwatch is a long way from here, and His Grace said nothing about keeping you in one piece, Kingslayer.”

Jaime sent one final glare to the Blackfish, but acquiesced. The deck was finely scrubbed, and two score seamen were preparing the boat to leave. He was taken down to the hold, where another fifty or so Lannister soldiers awaited him, crowded into cells. Some cheered when they saw him, others shouted insults and catcalls. Jaime ignored them all, and politely asked for a more isolated cell. The sailor laughed and spat in Jaime’s face, and shoved him into the nearest cell possible.

Jaime sat in the corner, and did his best to ignore the shouts that came his way. He felt the jolt of the boat as it came away, and then the rocking as they sailed out into Blackwater Bay. There was a hole in the boat’s hull, and Jaime looked out at the retreating Red Keep. Cersei was under there, and Jaime wondered if he would be able to turn this boat around, and mount a rescue. But, looking around, he’d be more likely of convincing this lot to grow wings and breathe fire.

Ser Jaime Lannister sighed deeply, and allowed the lull of the boat to rock him asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	19. Robb IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Judgement of a King

ROBB

The Iron Throne was as impressive as Robb had imagined; high ceilinged, with great pillars running the length of the room. In the three short days that he and King Stannis had been in the city, all traces of Lannister influence had been taken down. Now the flaming heart of R’hllor was the only banner to be seen flying in the throne room, although the Northern influence was clear to see; Grey Wind patrolled the walls, which were lined with Northern soldiers.

Robb’s seat was directly beside the fabled Iron Throne, on a stand so that he towered over the southron court. Unfortunately, he had to walk up the stand, and he thought that this made him look stupid. _Why not just have the throne on the ground?_

Today was the second day of trials, if they could be called such. For most of the Lannisters, it involved Stannis reading out their crimes, and sentencing them to death, but today it was Tywin, the Old Lion, the Great Lion of the West, the Fallen Lord of Casterly Rock. He was shackled painfully on his knees, and he still wore his armour, though it was scuffed and dented. His green eyes glared hatefully at Stannis and Robb, and the Young Wolf felt a sense of the power the man must have wielded when he was at his peak.

Stannis showed no such tremble, “Tywin Lannister, you are charged with treason, murder, war crimes, and being an accomplice to treason. How do you plead?”

“Lord.” was the only reply.

“Excuse me?”

“I said _Lord_ ,” Tywin said coldly, and Robb would have preferred it if he shouted, “That is the proper way to address me. Until I die I am Lord of Casterly Rock.”

Stannis gritted his teeth, “The Rock is no longer yours, Lannister, and therefore you deserve no such courtesy.”

“I’d ask to be addressed as Hand of the King,” Tywin grumbled, “But you’ve already given that honour to a smuggler.”

Stannis’ hands tightened on the arms of the Iron Throne, “We are not here to discuss my small council. We are here to sentence you for your crimes.”

“Sentence me?” Tywin asked, “I was under the impression that this was a trial. Tell me, is this the way things are under the Red God? Or is it the Northern tradition we follow today? I demand at least one witness. I demand my son.”

Stannis smiled imperceptibly, “Very well. Would the son of Tywin Lannister please take the witness stand?”

The guards, dressed in the Stark colours, dragged a chained blond figure towards the witness stand. His hair was dirty from imprisonment and he was bound tightly at the wrists. His once fine clothes were dirty and ripped, and he stumbled up the steps on short, malformed legs. He fixed Tywin Lannister with a mismatched stare.

“Good morning father.”

Tywin’s face twisted with pure hatred and rage, “ _You!!!_ ”

“You asked for your son, and I am your son,” Tyrion Lannister replied simply, “I have always been your son.”

“Where is Jaime?” Tywin’s gold-flecked eyes snapped up to Robb and Stannis at the edge of the room, and again Robb felt the man’s power, “I demand to see my eldest son.”

“The Kingslayer was sent to the Wall yesterday,” Stannis replied in iron tones, “As of last night his testimony is irrelevant.”

Tywin Lannister ground his teeth in a most Stannis-like way. He glared at the two Kings, and Robb motioned for Tyrion to speak.

Tyrion Lannister spoke of how his father had resisted a summons to the capital by the King’s Hand himself, instead raising his banners, an act that none could deny was treasonous. Tyrion told the court that Tywin ordered the deaths of hundreds of innocents by torching the Riverlands. At this point, Stannis added that Tywin defied the laws of succession by proclaiming Joffrey Waters king. Robb expected the Old Lion to protest at this, but he seemed broken. After nearly half an hour, where Stannis listed numerous noble deaths that Tywin’s work was seen in, he opened the sentencing to the court at large.

“Does anyone here have anything to add to the aforementioned list of the dead?”

The doors to the throne room were flung open, and four armoured warriors entered. The leader called out in a thick Dornish accent, “Elia Martell, Princess of Dorne. Aegon Targaryen, future Prince of Dragonstone. Rhaenys Targaryen, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms.”

If Stannis was unnerved by the interruption, he did not show it. “Prince Oberyn,” his voice was cold, but no colder than Robb was used to, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

The leader of the group – a man that Robb now knew to be Oberyn Martell – smirked arrogantly. He was a tall man, with a flowing mane of dark hair that tumbled down past his shoulders and dark eyes that twinkled with mischief and danger. He wore light leather armour and carried a spear across his back. The three beside him were women, Robb realised with a start. One wore a septa’s garb, another wore armour like Oberyn, and the third wore flowing silks. She winked up at Robb, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“I come to swear Dorne’s allegiance to the new King,” Oberyn Martell replied, “And to see justice done for our fallen family. I am told you are a just man, Stannis Baratheon. This man’s life is a cheap price for Dorne’s support, I can tell you.”

“What do you know of these deaths, Tywin Lannister?”

Tywin Lannister was silent for a moment. Then; “Gregor. They were his work.”

“A dog does not hunt a fox without his master,” Oberyn snarled, “Clegane had orders. Who gave them?”

“I would never –”

“Do you know what they looked like when they were found?” Oberyn asked quietly, silencing the entire court. Robb felt oddly as though he was intruding on something incredibly private and personal, and shifted once more. He hated these bloody thrones, “Aegon’s head was in a hundred pieces, scattered across the room. Rhaenys had been crushed, beside that little cat of hers. And my sister… my sister’s head had been crushed. She had been raped too, did you know that?”

“The Targaryens had to be dealt with.”

“So you admit ordering the murder of babes?” Now it was Robb’s turn to speak. He tried to keep his voice measured, but lost a little of his control.

“You’ll do far worse one day Stark,” Tywin Lannister spat, “You may not know it yet _boy_ , but war makes monsters of us all.”

Tywin Lannister didn’t speak a single word after that. Even as Robb’s men dragged him off of the stand he remained silent, his gold-flecked eyes simply glaring up at the kings above him. Stannis welcomed Oberyn formally to King’s Landing, and the Dornish prince took a seat with the rest of the court, to watch the rest of the trial.

The next name on their list was Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf raised one eyebrow, before asking if he ought to move three feet to the next stand. Robb fought down the wry smile that tried to force its way onto his face. He had a funny feeling the Imp saw him struggle with his face.

“The King in the North and I have discussed at great length the situation in the West,” Stannis began, his voice rolling across the immense throne room with little effort and enormous authority, “and we have decided that House Lannister will retain their lands in the West.”

Robb now spoke, “If their new lord will swear never to take up arms against his liege lord.”

A look of comprehension dawned on Tyrion Lannister’s face, “And who would that liege lord be, Your Grace?”

“Kneel, Tyrion Lannister.” Robb said softly, “When Jaime Lannister joined the Kingsguard, you became your father’s heir, as I am sure you are aware. Tywin Lannister will be executed on the morrow, and I need a Lannister to prevent the West from rising against my rule.”

“And you chose me?” Tyrion guessed, “I’m assuming that it has little to do with my favour with you Stark?”

“You’re no general, Tyrion Lannister,” Robb replied, “But you’d make a fine lord, if your work in King’s Landing is anything to go by. Besides, you opened the gates to our forces. The Lannisters aren’t the only ones who pay their debts you know.”

Tyrion stood thunderstruck for a moment, before awkwardly kneeling and bowing his head, “I thank you for your mercy, my King.”

Robb motioned to the men in Stark colours, and they unlocked Tyrion’s fetters, “However, you will not marry my sister. She has made her will clear on that, and I would not force her into a Lannister’s bed.”

Tyrion looked as though he wanted to speak, but instead he bowed once more, before going to stand by his sellsword lackey. Robb mistrusted the man Bronn, though he could find no crime to convict him of. He had killed a good many of Robb’s men in the battle, but that was war. Robb didn’t know for sure what would happen to him, but Stannis had made it clear that no sellsword would command the gold-cloaks under his rule.

Next to be called was Cersei Lannister. Her dress was filthy and her once fine golden hair was tangled horribly. Robb remembered seeing her at Winterfell, and naively thinking that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Now Cersei Lannister’s beautiful green eyes were filled with pure hatred. She scorned the guards who offered to help her when she stumbled, instead allowing her comfort to show her poor treatment.

“Cersei Lannister, you are accused of murder, regicide, committing incest, infidelity and high treason,” Stannis spoke with no emotion, except anger, “How do you plead?”

Silence.

“How do you plead?”

Silence.

“Speak woman, or I will have to assume that your silence is proof of your guilt.”

Cersei raised her head, “I have nothing to say except this; Robert Baratheon was a bastard. You’d have killed him too if you had the balls for it. All of you are cowards, d’you know that? I’d make a finer man than any of you, yet I’m forced into this weak form.” she threw back her head and cried to the roof, “The Lannisters are not finished. The lions will have their revenge. Hear us Roar!”

“Get her out of here,” Robb whispered to Dacey Mormont, who rushed to drag the screeching woman off of the stand.

Cersei Lannister kicked and fought against the large Mormont woman, but Dacey was too strong for her. The doors to the throne room closed with a terrifying finality. Stannis told the court that there were no more trials to be had, and that the remaining Lannisters and their closest allies would be executed at noon.

Robb visited Sansa after that. She hadn’t left her room much following their last meeting, save to beg Robb to spare Margaery Tyrell and her family.  Robb had told her that he would stop Stannis from killing the Tyrells the same as the Lannisters, if only to prevent an uprising in his first week as King. The two didn’t talk much, Robb’s mind was on the coming war with the Greyjoys, and also with the wildlings. _How did it get to this?_

Noon came, and Robb put on his armour for the executions of the Lannisters. The prisoners were held outside the Great Sept of Baelor, with Stark and Baratheon banners adorning the courtyard. A crowd had gathered, and Robb wondered how many of these people had jeered at his father as the sword came down.

_Speaking of swords…_

Ice, the ancestral sword of House Stark, was being held by Olyvar Frey, Robb’s squire. The boy was dwarfed by the enormous sword that he clasped in trembling arms. Robb smiled encouragingly at Olyvar, who winced back. First to the block was Tywin Lannister. Robb had demanded that they be executed properly, beheaded, rather than burned for the Red God. However, Melisandre would be allowed to burn the bodies.

Robb drew the enormous sword, and bowed his head, remembering the first time he had seen his father execute a man, all those years ago. “In the name of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I Robb, also of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, King in the North, the West and the Trident, sentence you die. Do you have any final words?”

Tywin Lannister spat at Robb’s feet, and glared defiantly at the King in the North. “A lion still has claws, Stark,” he said coldly, “a lion always has his claws.”

Tywin Lannister spoke no more, and Robb didn’t even have to make him kneel. His neck rested on the block and Robb raised Ice over his head. When he brought the ancient greatsword down, he could have sworn that Tywin murmured a woman’s name.

Cersei, Lancel, Osmund Kettleblack, Osfryd Kettleblack, Maester Pycelle, Armory Lorch, the names and faces blurred after nearly an hour. After Tywin, Robb executed the rest in the name of either himself or Stannis. Finally, there were none left to die. Robb wiped Ice clean of the blood, but still felt it on his hands. This couldn’t be honourable. Dying in battle, that was honour. But this? Robb couldn’t see how this was anything but dishonour on himself. He wondered if this was how his father felt.

He rode with Stannis Baratheon back to the Red Keep. Robb’s men would be leaving soon, merely resting for the long journey west. Hopefully they’d be quicker this time. Tyrion Lannister rode up beside him, nodding his head with a murmured “Your Grace.”

“Varys escaped,” Stannis ground his teeth as he spoke, “as did that worm Littlefinger.”

“Any idea where they might go?”

“Littlefinger would likely flee to the Vale,” Tyrion replied, though Robb had not been speaking to him, “And you’ll have no luck forcing Lysa Arryn to give him up. As for Varys… only Varys knows what Varys will do.”

“I mislike this,” Stannis muttered, “I always hated it here in the capital. Too many damn spies.”

Robb nodded, but did not speak. There were no spies in Winterfell, no secrets that everybody but him knew. How he longed for home. _Soon,_ he told himself, _soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	20. Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Little Bird sees the Flaming Stag's new kingdom

SANSA

 _It’s over…_ Sansa said to herself as they returned to the Red Keep, _It’s finally over…_ A small, nervous smile grew across her face, and soon she felt confident enough to grin like an idiot. The crowds of King’s Landing cheered King Stannis and Robb, and Sansa looked ahead to her brother and the Baratheon King. Robb was smiling back at the smallfolk and waving at them. King Stannis, for his part, merely clenched his jaw, and nodded stiffly to any that came to his horse.

Sansa’s attention was pulled away from the victors when a defeated Lord rode up next to her. Tyrion Lannister had detached himself from his liege lord to come and talk to Sansa. He smiled reassuringly, “It seems that we are not to marry after all.” And she could hear the restrained disappointment in his voice. _At least it wouldn’t have been Joffrey_.

“No, my Lord.”

“Sansa, let me tell you something,” Tyrion sighed, pausing for a moment to gather himself. He looked at he with his mismatched eyes, and Sansa saw something like pity in those green-and-black orbs, “You are a truly beautiful lady, but I never wanted you. I was forced into _that_ just as much as you were. You deserved someone better than a monster.”

All of a sudden Sansa felt bad for the little man. All these months she’d been preoccupied with how she felt about the betrothal, and here was Tyrion telling her that he’d felt just as bad. She’d never seen it that way, and Sansa felt shame. “Thank you for your kind words, Lord Tyrion,” she replied graciously, “and I wish you well in your search for love.”

Tyrion smiled wistfully, “I thought I’d found it once, but fate was cruel to us,” the smile turned sour, “Well, I say fate. I mean my bastard of a father, of course. One less lion for me to listen to, I suppose.”

Sansa’s shock must have registered on her face, because Tyrion chuckled, “You think me callous? I loved my father not as you loved yours, my Lady. There are very few in the Westerlands who will mourn his death.”

With that he left her in the dust, stopping Sansa from uttering another word. The Northern Princess was not left alone for long however. Margaery Tyrell rode up beside her a short while later, a glum expression on her face. Sansa was surprised. She’d expected Margaery to stay in a litter and be carried from the executions, but the Tyrell girl seemed to be an able rider.

“Are you alright, Margaery?”

“My husband-to-be is dead,” Margaery sighed, “I could never have loved Joffrey, but it was never him I wanted.”

_It was the throne you wanted. And now you’ll never come close again._

“I married one king and he never did his husband’s duty,” Margaery seemed more to be talking to herself than to Sansa, “and I’d have never followed Joffrey into a marriage bed, at least not willingly. Now both are dead. I must be cursed, Sansa.”

“Don’t say that,” Sansa pleaded the older girl, “you’re the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, blessed with beauty none other could possess, blessed with the Tyrell name, blessed with grace beyond measure. You may not be a queen Margaery, but you’re like a sister to me, and I owe you for your kindness.”

Margaery’s face lifted at the compliment, and Sansa glowed. She longed for nothing more than to repay Margaery for her kindness, and she wouldn’t let people like King Stannis Baratheon stop her. The Rose of Highgarden rode in silence for a moment, before changing the topic, “My brother is unwed, and heir to the wealthiest lands in the Kingdoms.”

“Your grandmother told me as much when we first met.”

“I remember,” Margaery breezed through Sansa’s cautious tone, and the Stark girl realised why Margaery wasn’t in her litter, “and you are the sister of the most powerful man in Westeros, if not the world. A warrior king with a hundred thousand swords…” Margaery trailed off dreamily, before snapping abruptly back to reality, “An alliance between our Houses could do anything, think of it Sansa!”

_I don’t want this, I just want home._

But the more she thought on it, Sansa realised that she could never call Winterfell home again, not after all that she had been through. Winterfell was a place of innocence, a place for silly little girls to grow up on songs of valour and heroism. Sansa’s horrific memories would only serve to taint her childhood home. And could it be home without Mother and Father? The North had lost a great lord when Eddard Stark died, and the Starks themselves had lost their binding force when Catelyn Tully was captured by Balon Greyjoy. Arya was gone, Bran and Rickon were in the clutches of Theon Turncloak, and would never live long enough for Robb to free them.

“I will speak to your brother,” Margaery told her, “or perhaps my grandmother will. She’s rather good at persuading people to do things.”

With that, Margaery rode off, and Sansa frowned after her, unsure of what to think of that last remark.

Days passed, and Sansa became impatient. She longed more than anything to return home, but it seemed that Robb was busy with… something. He spent almost all day with his councillors, only seeing her at the occasional meal. Sansa spent her days with Margaery and her ladies, though the feelings between them all had changed. No longer was Sansa the traitor’s daughter, the poor little Stark girl. Now, it was the Tyrells who were ignored or overruled. However much she liked Margaery, Sansa couldn’t say that a small part of her didn’t like the change.

She came to court a few times, and saw King Stannis name his Kingsguard. There had been some confusion as to whether or not he would even _have_ a Kingsguard, due to the Red Woman’s influence. Sansa had seen the priestess several times, and shivered to think of her unflinching gaze. However, King Stannis Baratheon seemed to bow before that tradition at least, and named Ser Richard Horpe as the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, along with Ser Rolland Storm, Ser Loras Tyrell, Ser Parmen Crane and Ser Gerald Gower. Ser Arys Oakheart, who had been in Dorne at the time of the battle, would return to the capital in the coming weeks, and King Stannis had named an unknown Ser Meryn Storm to his Kingsguard, and some whispered that that had been the work of Davos Seaworth, the King’s Hand.

Margaery had few good words to say about Lord Seaworth, but Sansa thought him rather kind and sweet. She had seen him with the Princess Shireen, and he had been courteous with her when they had crossed paths. _People only hate him because he’s lowborn_ , Sansa knew. She knew how he must feel; it was not so long since she herself had been the object of the Red Keep’s scorn.

Finally, the reason for their waiting became clear. On the first day of the new year, of the new century, three men arrived in King’s Landing. One was a gruff-looking grey-bearded lord wearing bronze armour. He greeted Sansa and Robb with great enthusiasm, and hugged them both tightly. He introduced himself as Yohn Royce, the Lord of Bronzegate, and King Stannis’ new master of coin and representing the Vale. Another was a boy with big round ears and wide blue eyes. He couldn’t have been older than one-and-ten, but boldly introduced himself as Robert Baratheon’s son. Sansa noted that he omitted what type of son he was. Following Edric Storm was her uncle, Edmure Tully. He embraced both Sansa and Robb, and offered his condolences, which were reciprocated. He told them that Lord Hoster Tully, their grandfather, had passed away not long after Lady Catelyn.

King Stannis held court that day, and all were in attendance. Robb sat on his wooden throne next to the ugly Iron one that King Stannis occupied. Before them stood Tyrion Lannister, Edmure Tully, Bronze Yohn, Edric Storm, Oberyn Martell and Mace Tyrell. King Stannis called the southron lords forward one by one, and one by one they pledged their fealty to the Iron Throne. Tyrell, Arryn, Martell, and all waited with bated breath when Edric Storm swaggered forward and knelt before King Stannis.

“You are my brother’s son, Edric Storm?” King Stannis asked.

“I am.”

“Born to Delena Florent?”

“I am.”

“Do you, by all the gods, swear to lay down your claim to the Iron Throne if you are named a member of House Baratheon?”

A pause.

“I do.”

King Stannis stood, “Then, by all the gods, old and new, red or otherwise, I name you Edric Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End and Liege Lord of the Stormlands.”

Edric looked up, a new light in his deep blue eyes, “I thank you, my King. I swear to serve you loyally for the rest of my days.”

King Stannis nodded, and Edric Baratheon re-joined his fellow Lords Paramount. Next, Robb asked Uncle Edmure and Tyrion Lannister to step forth, and both swore to serve him as leal subjects. The court was then asked if there were any who wished to petition either king.

Lord Mace Tyrell stepped forward, and Sansa thought she saw King Stannis grip his chair a little harder. Robb frowned, and she couldn’t read anything from his face. Lord Tyrell knelt before the two kings.

“Your Graces,” he said, “Seven blessings on you both.”

King Stannis looked as though he was about to speak, but bit his tongue. Robb raised one auburn eyebrow.

“I wish to propose a betrothal,” Lord Mace continued, unaware of the cynicism of the two men before him, “Your sister, King Robb, is unmarried. It was a notion of mine,” Sansa snorted at that, “to marry her to my son, Willas. He is a good lad, kind and gentle, and heir to the Reach.”

Robb frowned down at the Lord of Highgarden, and looked to where Sansa was standing, at the side of the court. For her part, Sansa was unsure what exactly she wanted to happen. She wanted to believe that this Willas was a kind man, just as his family said he was. Mace Tyrell had never spoken roughly to her, and neither had Ser Loras, so she supposed that he might be alright. She looked at Robb, and he also seemed unsure. _Do it only if I will be safe_ , she begged with her mind, _please let me be safe_.

After a few more moments of silence, Robb looked back to Lord Tyrell, “My sister has had two betrothals before, Lord Mace,” he said, his voice hard as iron, “Once to a monster and again to a dwarf.”

“He will treat her well, Your Grace.” Tyrell replied swiftly, seemingly honest.

Robb looked over again, and Sansa nodded at him.

_I’m ready. I’ll be alright._

Robb nodded, a small smile spreading across his features, “Then I consent. Sansa will accompany your family back to Highgarden soon.”

Mace Tyrell’s flabby face broke into a giddy smile, “Th-thank you, Your Grace!”

After that, there were very few things of note to be said, save a few appointments. King Stannis named Prince Oberyn Martell as his master of laws, the Red Priestess as his mistress of whispers and Lord Redwyne as his master of ships. After they were all dismissed, Margaery came running towards Sansa, and wrapped her up in a tight embrace.

“We’ll be sisters, Sansa,” Margaery mumbled into her ear, “You’ll see.”

“Yes, yes, yes girl,” Lady Olenna Redwyne huffed, “And both of you will run around the gardens and pick daisies.”

Margaery stepped away from Sansa, and rolled her eyes, “Grandmother.”

“Don’t you ‘Grandmother’ me, young lady,” Olenna grumbled, “Willas is marrying Sansa, not you. Let him be the one to embrace her.” the Queen of Thorns turned her attention to Sansa, “But I believe that congratulations are in order, my dear. It seems I will have another grandchild to cherish.”

“Thank you, Lady Olenna.”

“Nonsense dear,” Lady Olenna retorted, “You can call me ‘Grandmother’ too, as long as you say it with the respect I deserve, unlike your future good-sister here.”

Sansa was trying to find something to say to that when Robb walked up. He looked odd without his armour, smaller somehow, though he still wore a huge dark mantle and the bronze crown of the First Men rested on his brow. He smiled down at his younger sister, and blanched at her company.

“Lady Margaery,” he said courteously, kissing her hand, “I have heard many tales of your beauty and grace.”

Margaery smirked prettily at Robb, “They were no tales, Your Grace.”

Robb blushed at that, and looked away, towards Lady Olenna, “And, you are…?”

“Oh, just the former Lady of Highgarden,” she replied sarcastically, “Nothing to worry on at all.”

Sansa thought that she had better step in, and rescue her poor brother, “This is Lady Olenna Redwyne, Margaery’s grandmother.”

“The Queen of Thorns?”

As soon as he said it, a hush fell over the group. Robb, stared blankly at her, and Sansa rolled her eyes. _Northern courtesy_.

However, it was Olenna Redwyne who spoke first, “Good to see that Starks are just as oafish as Tyrells or Targaryens,” she snorted, “Come Margaery, I need a walk.”

Margaery mouthed a ‘sorry’ at Robb and hurried after her grandmother, and the King in the North looked at his sister with yet another blank look on his face. Sansa laughed at him, and laughed all through his tongue-tied apologies. It felt good for her to laugh, and wondered when she had last laughed this hard. _It must be Winterfell_ , she thought, and Sansa hoped that she’d be able to laugh like this at Highgarden.

She stifled her laughter when Prince Oberyn Martell strode towards them. Robb stood up a little straighter, and the two men seemed to size each other up.

“So you are the son of Ned Stark?” Oberyn Martell’s voice was soft and inviting, but his eyes twinkled with something that scared Sansa. He seemed dangerous, deadly even. _They don’t call him Viper for nothing_.

“And you are the Prince of Dorne’s brother.”

“You are not as stupid as you look,” Oberyn replied, “I will give you that.”

Robb stepped forward, but Sansa put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. Oberyn chuckled at that.

“Forgive me,” he said, though his eyes betrayed no hint of apology, “I find it hard to speak to the sons of murderers. I too come to speak of a betrothal.”

“My father –”

“Men do things in war that they are not proud of,” Oberyn brushed Robb’s words off as if they were nothing, and Sansa found herself disliking the man, “I am sure you know this. Tales are told of the wild daughter of Winterfell. Your younger sister.”

“Arya is dead.”

“Princess Arya has been missing for eighteen months,” Oberyn argued, “There is a difference. Should she be found, my brother and I would very much like to meet her. She would do better in Dorne than anywhere else; we teach boys and girls alike swordplay.”

_Arya would have liked that._

_If she were still…_

“I,” Robb started, “I will think on it.”

Prince Oberyn Martell dipped his head, “Then I thank you. Congratulations Princess. Another poor girl tangled by roses.”

He left them there, giving them nothing to say to his retreating back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	21. The Exiled Griffin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the City of Elephants, a lone Griffin hears news of the Seven Kingdoms

THE EXILED GRIFFIN

It was dark in Volantis, which Jon Connington was thankful for. The city was filled with spies, sneaks and other men of dishonour, whose notice the Westerosi man would be thankful to escape. His blue-dyed beard and hair disguised him well enough, but the chunky longsword and mail that he wore all but quashed that illusion. He kept a hood over his face, and wrapped the thick woollen cloak about himself, despite the muggy heat of a Volantene evening.

The normally-bustling streets were almost empty, which was unusual itself. Volantis was _never_ empty. The city housed nearly a million souls, free or not, and that meant there was always _someone_ out in the streets. Not tonight though. Tonight there was only Connington and his memories.

By rights, he shouldn’t even _be_ here. In Volantis, in Essos, across the damn Narrow Sea, he shouldn’t be anywhere near here. His place was half a world away, in Griffin’s Roost. In the castle that was his _birthright_ , by all the laws of all the gods. A birthright that the Usurper had seen fit to take away from him.

_For what crime? For defending my king._

_And my love._

He had been a much younger man then, a soft, green, stupid _boy_ with dreams of glory and delusions of grandeur. He had been Hand of the King – _what a king Aerys was_ – and charged with the most important duty in the entire war; kill the Usurper.

Even now, the bells haunted his memory. The mournful sound of the bells as the smallfolk locked their doors and half a hundred bowmen rained death on Connington’s men. It wasn’t only the war that they had lost that day. Jon Connington lost a future, or so he had thought.

That was until he had been approached by the _eunuch_ , and handed a sleeping babe, and told to flee across the sea. That babe was now a man grown, the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms

_King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, and what does he spend his evenings doing? Likely drinking with Ser Rolly and the Halfmaester no doubt._

Connington always thought he raised the boy to be better than that, but then reflected that he had likely been the same at that age. Besides, they were not in Westeros yet, and they were still to meet with the Golden Company.

Connington walked by the waterfront, and looked out across the bay, and saw the hundreds of ships that docked there. He wondered how he would be able to find his contact, and was beginning to contemplate walking away, when he sensed a presence behind him. It _was_ a sense, as his new company had moved almost silently.

He turned, his hand on his sword, and relaxed when he saw the man behind him. The newcomer was pudgy and bald, and wore fine purple silks despite having been on a long voyage. The man reeked of sweetness, and Connington felt bile rise in his throat.

 _The Spider_.

Seemingly unperturbed by Connington’s distaste, the eunuch bowed his head in greeting, “My Lord Hand,” his voice sweet but dangerous, “a pleasure.”

“Hand no more,” Connington replied, “You saw to that.”

“My Lord, you wound me,” Varys tittered, “I’m afraid you’ve none to blame for your fall but yourself. And perhaps the Usurper.”

“What do you want?”

“The boy,” Varys’ voice had lost its levity, and seemed harder, colder, “Where is he?”

“With Ser Rolly and the Halfmaester.”

“ _Ser_ Rolly?”

“Aye,” Connington bit back a cold remark, “Aegon knighted him a few moons past. He intends to name him to the Kingsguard, when Westeros is his.”

Varys smirked, “I assume you told him this was unwise?”

Connington snorted. _Would that the boy still listened to me. He’s a Targaryen, aye, like his father was. But there were dragons far worse than my Prince. Mad, cruel, and worse._

By now they were walking, though Connington was not sure where. It then occurred to him that Varys would know where they camped, and surmised that that was their destination. He misliked being led around, but supposed that there was little he could do.

“He’s six-and-ten,” Connington retorted, “Find me any boy who listens to his –” _Father_ , “his guardian on such matters.”

Varys tittered again at that, and Connington frowned at him. He shouldn’t have been there, Connington suddenly realised, he should have been in the Seven Kingdoms, slowly advising the Baratheons and Lannisters into early graves. _That_ was Varys’ role. Looking after Aegon was his. Something must have happened, and when Connington asked the eunuch what it was, a shadow crossed his face.

“It seems we have underestimated certain souls in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Who?” Connington didn’t get much news, such was a regrettable effect of living on a boat for sixteen years, “Tywin Lannister? Cersei? The Kingslayer?”

Varys looked troubled, and that alone sent a shiver down Connington’s spine.

_What could scare a Spider so?_

_What bodes ill for Varys bodes ill for the realm at large. For Aegon_.

“Tywin Lannister is dead,” Varys told him, “As is his daughter. The Kingslayer is to take the black, and their golden king lies in a ditch somewhere outside King’s Landing.”

 _No_.

“Who holds the Iron Throne?”

“Stannis Baratheon.” answered Varys, and Connington swore. He knew little enough of the second Baratheon brother – the only brother now – but what he did know did not fill him with confidence for Aegon’s cause.

 _The man’s hard as iron, and just as forgiving as winter_ , he thought, _we’d have just as much luck treating with a wall_.

However, one thought filled him with a little hope, “He fights the Northerners though, doesn’t he?” Connington prayed that Stannis Baratheon would be distracted.

“No,” replied Varys, and Connington’s heart sank, “It seems that Robb Stark won him over. Now Westeros is split between the two kings. Even as we speak, Robb Stark marches west to rid himself of the Ironborn, and thence north, or so I’m told, to crush Mance Rayder.”

Connington frowned, “I know no House Rayder.”

“A wildling King with a hundred thousand swords,” Varys explained, “If the stories are to be believed. In all likelihood he’ll be crushed long before you move west. But that won’t be hard.”

“Why not?”

“You must not go to Westeros,” Varys said firmly, “Not at the moment.”

Connington stopped, and glared at the eunuch, “If not now, then when? The Seven Kingdoms are splintered, broken by war –”

“The North has never been more united,” Varys snapped, his voice sharper than Connington had ever known it to be, “And with the backing of Houses Tully and Lannister, Robb Stark is unstoppable. His brother is to marry Stannis’ daughter, sealing this pact in blood as well as in ink. Stannis will likely give Dorne its vengeance, closing them off from us. He is a Baratheon, so the Storm Lords kneel and kiss his boots, and Lysa Arryn will never endanger her son.”

“What of the Reach?”

“Mace Tyrell fears the Starks,” Varys said, but Connington wondered if he was so certain, “and his heir will marry Robb Stark’s sister in the next few moons. With none of the seven great houses supporting us, who will we turn to for allies?”

Connington had to admit, he was stumped by that. He’d never cared much for the intricacies of the realm, and maybe that was coming back to bite him in the arse. _Give me a sword and shield_ , he thought, _I’d prefer those to a quill and raven any day_.

“Aegon has the rightful claim,” he said stoutly, and Varys gave him a look of pity.

“Perhaps when the realm was at war with five kings,” came the condescending reply, “but now the Iron Throne has a king, a strong, just king with the full power of the North just a raven’s flight away. We need to regroup, to think up a new plan. We cannot just march in anymore.”

By now, they had arrived at the camp. Connington took Varys to the central tent, which was plain and without decoration. The boy had raged at that, but Connington counselled him that it was better to not reveal himself until he had the backing of an army.

 _A golden army, one founded to make Westeros kneel_.

Inside were three men. Standing in the shadows was Haldon, the man they called Halfmaester. He was elderly, but had Connington’s respect if not his love. Seated at the table was a large knight with a duck sewn on his breast. Ser Rolly Duckfield was not a man Connington particularly trusted, though the same could not be said of the final occupant of the room.

Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name, Rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm had washed his hair. It now hung long and silver, down past his shoulders. His violet eyes glimmered with wit and confidence, and he had donned a black-and-red doublet with the three-headed dragon of Targaryen on his breast. The boy had a strange look about him. Connington wouldn’t call him handsome, the word didn’t seem to do him justice.

_Beautiful. He is as beautiful as any who came before him._

_As his father._

Aegon stood when Connington entered with Varys, and looked questioningly at the eunuch.

“Lord Connington,” the Prince’s voice was soft, melodious, “Who is this man?”

Varys bowed deeply, “A humble servant, Your Grace. Some see fit to call me a Spider, though my mother gave me the name Varys.”

Silence fell, and Aegon walked towards Varys, strong emotions mixing in his expression. Connington saw anger, confusion, fear, hatred, “You serve the Usurper.”

“Never,” Varys replied silkily, “It was I who saved your life, I who sent you over here with Lord Connington, I who hid you from the Usurper’s eyes.”

Aegon chewed that over, “How do I know I can trust you?”

“I have served House Targaryen unwaveringly for the last thirty years,” Varys tittered, “Your father trusted me, as did your grandfather. As will you, in time.”

Aegon’s eyes flitted to Connington, and the lord nodded slightly. Aegon then smiled broadly, and invited the eunuch for a drink. The two began to talk of Westeros, Varys filling the Prince in on all that he had told Connington. Of course, Aegon misliked most of this news, but before he could get too angry, the final member of their little group came bursting through the tent flap.

Septa Lemore was a handsome woman in her middle-forties with long dark hair and eyes the colour of honey, and was responsible for teaching Aegon about the mysteries of the Faith. She panted, as though she had been running.

“Your Grace,” she said breathlessly, “The Golden Company, they’re here!”

Connington’s head snapped towards her, “What did you say?”

“The Golden Company,” she repeated, before turning her head towards the eunuch, “What in the seven hells is _he_ doing here?”

“A pleasure, as always, my Lady,” Varys murmured, “We must away, my Lord, Your Grace. I have alerted Harry Strickland to your presence, he will be here –”

But Varys was cut off when the tent flap burst open again. The newcomers were sellswords, the very best, and Connington sized them up. First was Homeless Harry Strickland, a man who looked less like a warrior than Varys. His mail did little to hide his substantial gut, and he had started to go to bald.

Beside Homeless Harry stood a night-skinned Summer Islander with white hair, a man Connington named Black Balaq. Black Balaq commanded the company’s archers, and wore a splendid cloak of green feathers. At his side was his bow, six-feet of strong wood. On Strickland’s other side was Franklyn Flowers, a great brute of a man with most of his face carved off as if by a blind butcher. He was the bastard of one of old Lord Fossoway’s sons, and so hated the Lords of Cider Hall with all of his heart. He glowered down at everyone in the room.

Harry Strickland knelt, “My King,” he said, “It is good to know that a Targaryen still lives.”

“Your company was founded to kill my ancestors, Ser,” Aegon retorted, “Your compliments mean nothing to me.”

“We served the true line of House Targaryen,” Strickland replied, adding hurriedly “or so we thought. It is clear that the dragons we served were weak. The blood of Valyria flows through your veins in greater volume than it ever did with Bittersteel or his kin.”

Aegon was silent for a moment, allowing a small smile to dance across his beautiful face. He studied Strickland for a long, long moment, before his mailed fist crunched into Strickland’s flabby cheek.

Blood sprayed across the tent, and Homeless Harry Strickland was sent sprawling. He grabbed for his sword, and Aegon stamped on his fingers, causing the sellsword to scream in agony.

Flowers drew his sword, but Connington pointed his own blade at the bastard’s throat, a dangerous glimmer in his blue eyes. He also pulled a dagger and threw it at Black Balaq. The Summer Islander screamed as the blade embedded itself in his left arm, dropping his bow, which had been pointed at Aegon.

The prince himself seemed to be sated after burying his foot into Strickland’s gut. Homeless Harry choked blood, but Aegon stepped away, his silver hair falling over his face. His voice came out harsh and angry.

“Have you nothing to say for yourself, _Ser_?”

Connington didn’t think he’d seen the fat sellsword move as fast as he did when prostrating himself before Aegon, “A thousand pardons, Your Grace,” he whimpered, “I meant no offence.”

“Take out your sword.”

Strickland did so.

“Swear,” Aegon commanded, “Swear on the name of your piece of shit House that you will serve me in all that I command.”

“I-I swear.”

“Now swear your sword to Lord Connington.”

“My – Your Grace?”

“You heard me,” Aegon’s voice was like dragonfire, “swear your sword to Lord Connington. Or rather, Jon Connington, Lord of Griffin’s Roost, Hand of the King and Lord Commander of the Golden Company.”

“Y-your Grace,” Strickland stood indignantly, yet quailed under Aegon’s gaze, “I must protest –”

“No,” Aegon silenced the man with a single word, “You will serve Lord Connington, or your head will be struck from your shoulders and dipped in gold like those who came before you.”

That silenced Strickland, who rose and stood by his captains, whose gazes smouldered with rage. Connington knelt next, and offered his sword to Aegon, knowing the words he had to speak, “I swear to serve you with all of my heart, as I served your father before you, and his father before him.”

“Very good,” Aegon nodded. He turned to the eunuch, “Lord Varys, tell me news of my aunt. We will need her dragons if Stannis Baratheon is to kneel before us, and Robb Stark with him.”

“It seems that Daenerys has sacked Astapor, the slave city,” Varys reported, and Connington frowned. Astapor was in the east, the wrong way, “And she has, by all reports, acquired an army for herself.”

“An army? How?”

“She rides with eight thousand Unsullied soldiers.”

_Unsullied? Where in the seven hells did she find the coin?_

“Unsullied?” Aegon seemed to like that. He grinned, and turned to Strickland, “Does the Golden Company have ravens?”

“A-aye, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Aegon replied, “Send a raven to Astapor, or wherever she is. Lord Varys will tell you the details of that. Tell her of my claim to the Iron Throne, and suggest an alliance, to restore our House’s power and prestige. Tell her that we shall meet her here, in Volantis.”

“It will be done, Your Grace.”

“See that it is,” Aegon growled, “You have much to make up for, Ser Strickland.”

Homeless Harry and the Spider left the tent, followed by Black Balaq and Franklyn Flowers. Connington turned to Aegon, concern in his eyes.

“Your Grace,” he warned, “that was ill-advised.”

“What was?” Aegon snapped, “Strickland is no loyal commander, and no battle commander from the look of him. You are my most loyal servant, Lord Connington, and I rewarded that loyalty today.”

“He will not forget the slight.”

“Good,” came the reply, “Let him know what it means to wake the dragon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	22. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bastard of Winterfell rides for the Wall, but he will find little justice when he arrives...

JON

 _Pain_.

That’s all he felt, all he had felt for days, but those days felt like weeks. The horse did little and less to ease his pain, though he understood its urgency. He needed to get back as quickly as it did, and so Jon Snow gritted his teeth and ignored the stabbing pain in his side.

 _Arrows_.

_Fuck, why did it have to arrows?_

Arrows were her favourite, he remembered through the haze of agony, remembered the weirwood bow that she wore, remembered the wave of red that cascaded down her shoulders…

Jon didn’t know how long it took him to get to the Wall. He slept with his eyes open, and almost fell off the horse half a hundred times. He didn’t know how he held on, but when he saw the seven-hundred-feet-high cliff of ice rising up before him, he was given the strength to carry on.

He wasn’t sure how, but he managed to get to Castle Black in relative safety. He rode into the keep, but when the horse stopped that was Jon’s last moment of lucidity. He became vaguely aware of the ground rushing up to meet him, the iron grey of the sky, and the cold stone of Castle Black on his back. Half a dozen faces swam before his eyes, but he slipped into darkness before he could hear what they said.

_In his dreams, he roamed in the wild lands, the lands he once called home. He ran close to the ground, running towards the south, towards the scent of his true home. To his master._

_The forest was teeming with life – small, furry creatures scuttled away when they heard him coming, but he paid them no mind. He had no need to mind them. There were other creatures that merited his attention. The small cousins, prowling around, occasionally yapping at him. He did not need to snap at them to get them to leave. His very presence seemed to terrify them._

_Or perhaps it was the Cold Ones who did that._

_Even now, he shivered to think of them. They were not far behind him, and he could sense them all around him. This forest was full of their power. He could not stay here. He ran through the trees, leaping over twisted logs that looked like grasping fingers, ducking under low-hanging branches that snagged at his coat._

_Then he saw them._

_They moved like a silent army, thousands of broken and rotting bodies marching through the forest of ice, as far as his keen eyes could see. An army of the dead._

_And now he was_ really _running, across the frozen fields, running past the horde of corpses, until he reached a line of white wraiths on horseback. He halted, and kept very still. The snow was his colour, and he would be hidden._

_Or so he thought._

_The wraith closest to him turned, as if sensing his presence, turned on him with cold, cold eyes._

Jon gasped, and sat bolt upright. His voice rang out, hoarse and dry, echoing around his surroundings.

“ _Ghost!!!_ ”

His eyes darted about the room, and it took him a moment to realise that it _wasn’t_ a room. The walls were made of ice, and Jon lay on a hard wooden bed, with only a thin woollen blanket to cover his body. It was freezing, but despite the cold, a sheen of sweat covered him.

Seated by the side of his bed were two men. One, was a wizened, bald, ancient man, with misty eyes that Jon knew were once a deep lilac. Maester Aemon Targaryen wore the robe of his order in the black of the Night’s Watch, and looked at Jon hard with his blind eyes.

 Next to Maester Aemon, holding a chest filled with poultices and potions, sat Samwell Tarly, a fat boy who was once heir to Horn Hill, one of the richest lordships in the Reach. His face was pale, and Jon knew that he was terrified. Of what, Jon had little idea.

“Ghost, Jon Snow?”

Maester Aemon’s voice was dry as dust, and almost as quiet as a grave, barely above a whisper.

“My wolf, maester,” Jon explained, “I dreamed… nothing…”

“My ancestors dreamed too, Jon Snow,” Aemon told him, “They say Daenys the Dreamer saw the Doom in her slumber. Dreams can be powerful, Jon Snow. Never underestimate their importance.”

Jon wasn’t sure what to make of that. He turned to Sam, who fidgeted uncomfortably. His friend looked nervous, as if he was afraid of something Jon might say or do. His pale eyes flicked from Jon, to the door, and back to Jon again.

“Is something wrong?”

“We-we lost…” Sam’s voice broke, and his silence returned.

Maester Aemon spoke for him, “There was a mutiny at Craster’s Keep, and many brothers fell.”

“The Lord Commander?”

Aemon held Jon’s eyes with a rheumy gaze, “We shall never see his like again.”

Silence fell once more, and Jon felt a hollow feeling build up inside his belly. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont had been as stalwart a commander as any before him, and Jon knew him as a great man. The Watch had lost a brother in Jeor Mormont, and one of the greatest Lord Commanders in its history.

 _We shall never see his like again_.

_Now the Wall is manned by crooks and rapists. Will one of them lead now?_

“When will the new Lord Commander be chosen?”

“After the wildlings are repelled,” Aemon answered, “Denys Mallister is a favourite, as is Alliser Thorne. He has the backing of Janos Slynt, once Lord of Harrenhal.”

“My father’s murderer, you mean.”

“All men are murderers,” the maester replied, “And all murderers are men. Janos is a brother of the Nights Watch now, and his past crimes are meaningless. Remember that, Jon Snow.”

A knocking at the door interrupted them, and Jon sat up painfully. His chest still ached from the arrows, and his heart ached more painfully still. In came Ser Alliser Thorne, Castle Black’s master-at-arms. He wore the black mail of a brother, and his sword swung at his side. He was flanked by a fat man who looked rather like a toad, and Jon guessed that this was Janos Slynt.

“Lord Snow,” Thorne’s voice was snide and cold as ever, “You saw fit to return to us.”

Jon kept his mouth shut.

“There are reports that you deserted us, and joined the wildlings,” Thorne snarled, “and worse still. You were sent ranging with the Halfhand and two others. Where are they?”

“Qhorin Halfhand died,” Jon replied softly, “As did the others. I will answer my charges in full view of my brothers, Ser Alliser. I demand a fair trial, like the one my father was owed.”

This last was perhaps insolent, but Jon felt a glow of satisfaction to see Janos Slynt flush with anger. The pudgy brother stepped forward, but was stayed with a flick of Ser Alliser’s wrist, “You’ve spent too much time with scum, Lord Snow,” the grizzled knight sneered, “clearly you’ve forgotten your courtesies. Maester, Piggy, with me.”

Dutifully, Sam helped Maester Aemon up off the ground, and shot an apologetic look at Jon, who shook his head. Before slamming the door, Ser Alliser gave Jon one parting remark;

“You will answer for your crime, Lord Snow, be sure of that. You will answer on the morrow, and then you will die.”

Then the door swung shut behind him.

Jon swore, and kicked at the wall of the ice cell. Immediately, a stabbing pain shot up his side, and he gasped, limping back to his sorry excuse for a bed. Eyes smarting, he kneaded the flesh around his swollen ribs. He wondered if he’d be able to ask for a trial by combat, and then wondered if he’d survive that.

He’d followed the Halfhand’s orders; Do as they command you, everything they command you. He still remembered the light going out of Qhorin Halfhand’s eyes as Longclaw stuck out of him. Jon steadied his breathing, and began to wait the night out.

He’d known some long nights in his time, and he’d known some cold nights in his time, but he’d never known a night as long and cold as this one. After several months of sleeping rough Beyond the Wall, he’d thought he’d known what cold was. But Jon had never experienced cold like this before.

When they came for him in the morning, Jon’s skin was beginning to turn blue, and he couldn’t stop shaking. A rather more kindly brother gave Jon his cloak, but the cloak was worn in places. Regardless, Jon thanked him.

He was to be tried by senior men of the Watch – Maester Aemon sat alongside Alliser Thorne and Lord Steward Bowen Marsh. Jon prayed to his father’s gods that he would be spared. If not… if not then he would meet them soon enough.

The morning was cold and crisp, and Jon shivered through his cloak. Down in the yard, what remnants of the Watch that had come home sparred with tourney swords. Jon only hoped that they had live steel for when the time came. The Others wouldn’t use tourney swords, and they’d not help you up if your shield was low.

Then, he was inside, and Jon looked up to face his judges. In the middle stood Ser Alliser Thorne. On his left stood old Maester Aemon, his milky eyes focussed on some point on the roof. On Ser Alliser’s left stood Bowen Marsh, the Lord Steward of the Watch. Marsh was a fat, sallow man with dark hair and sunken eyes. Jon’s friend Eddard Tollett liked to call him ‘the Old Pomegranate’ in mockery of the Old Bear, Jeor Mormont.

“Jon Snow,” Ser Alliser growled, “You stand accused of breaking your vows. How do you plead?”

Jon was silent for a moment. Then, “All I did, I did on the orders of a senior brother, Qhorin Halfhand.”

Ser Alliser gave a harsh laugh, “Do you expect us to believe that?”

“It’s the truth,” Jon snapped, “The Halfhand ordered me to join the wildlings, to learn their plans, to gain their trust. To do as they told me in everything.”

“Did he order you to kill him?”

Jon fell silent, before speaking in a broken voice, “He ordered me to obey them in everything. And I followed his orders to the end.”

Ser Alliser wore an ugly grin, unbefitting for one who had lost a sworn brother, “So you confess to the murder of Qhorin Halfhand?”

“I do not deny slaying him,” Jon replied, “But I am no murderer.”

“There is – ahem – another matter,” Bowen Marsh said, his voice tremulous, “of the breaking of vows. There are rumours that you…” he trailed off, reddening.

“That I lay with a wildling girl?” Jon finished, “I do not deny it.”

“Was that another of the Halfhand’s orders,” Ser Alliser growled, “to fuck a spearwife?”

Jon had no answer to that, but Maester Aemon did, “If we are to sentence Jon Snow for laying with this girl, are we to sentence every man who sneaks off to Mole’s Town in the hour of the wolf, and behead them as deserters? The Old Bear knew many who slipped away in the night, and forgave them for returning. Jon Snow has returned to us, Ser Alliser. If it is as he claims, and the Halfhand gave him orders, we must not sentence him for following those orders.”

“You believe him?”

“I’m not lying!” Jon shouted, but Maester Aemon held up a hand for quiet, and Jon obeyed.

“I did not know Ned Stark,” Maester Aemon said, “but I knew his reputation. If the actions of the father are anything to go by, Jon Snow is no liar. He was the Lord Commander’s own steward and squire. He had trust in Jon Snow, as do I.”

Bowen Marsh spoke grudgingly, “Maester Aemon has the right of it,” he grumbled, “The boy was loyal to the Old Bear, and his uncle was a true a man as any in the Watch. Besides,” he added, fleshy cheeks quivering, “We have few enough men as it is. The Watch needs every man who can hold a sword to fight. The wildlings are coming. Jon Snow might have some useful information.”

Ser Alliser ground his teeth, “It’s settled then,” he said tersely, “But mark my words, Lord Snow: if I get a whiff of treachery from you, your head will roll.”

Jon bowed his head, and murmured a courtesy. He was excused, and he left the room. The snow was falling thickly, and Jon thought back to the words of House Stark.

_Winter is coming. We’ll be ready for it._

_We have to be._

His thoughts were interrupted when Sam rushed up to him, carrying a scroll. The fat boy was sweating, but his face was excited, elated even. He raised a hand in greeting.

“You alright then?”

“For now,” Jon said darkly, “Do we know how far away the wildlings are?”

“Not far now, I should think,” Sam replied, before waving the scroll again, “This just arrived from the south. It’s addressed to the Watch, but I thought you should read it.”

Jon took the scroll, confused. As he unfurled it, his eyes widened when he saw the grey direwolf seal beside a flaming stag.

_Men of the Watch,_

_I write from King’s Landing to inform you that the war is over. The Lannisters have been unseated, and a peace made. Many of their number chose to take the black, and you can expect them to arrive at Eastwatch-By-The-Sea in the coming months. I hope they will aid you in manning the Wall._

_Yours,_

_Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King on the Iron Throne_

_Robb Stark, King in the North, West and of the Trident._

Jon clutched the scroll so tightly he feared it would tear. So, it seemed Robb had won his war in the south. Jon supposed he’d be coming north soon, perhaps even to the Wall. Even here, they’d heard of his victories against Jaime and Tywin Lannister. But then he thought of the Ironborn, and a shiver went down his spine.

Theon Turncloak still had Winterfell. Jon had always known there was something off about the Greyjoy lad, but he’d never realised how far it went until now. And Bran and Rickon were with him…

Jon couldn’t think of that now. A cold wind blew up from the north, and Jon drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders. Winter was coming. And with it, would come the wights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	23. Daenerys II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside the Harpy's great city, the Dragon Queen recieves a proposal, and an offer that shakes the foundation of her being.

DAENERYS

Yunkai rose out of the ground, squatting like an ugly toad by the coast. Its yellow walls rose high and strong above the desert, so high that their shadows stretched for half a mile. In front of the huge city were the siege lines of eight thousand soldiers. A few hastily-erected trebuchets stood, ready to fire if necessary, in front of the walls. The gate to the city opened with a clanking noise, and several men began the long walk to the white pavilion that stood behind the Unsullied siege lines.

Dany sat upon a small throne in the pavilion, Drogon resting along its back. To her left stood Ser Jorah, Arstan and Strong Belwas, and to her left were Missandei and Grey Worm, the commander of the Unsullied. The day was hot, and Dany thanked the shade of the pavilion.

As the group of men came closer, Dany began to make out their features. One was a Braavosi behemoth, with a great orange beard. Beside him walked a Tyroshi with a beard of triple-forked blue, and on the right was a weathered Ghiscari. Dany squared her jaw, and invited them to sit awhile in her company.

The Braavosi introduced himself as Mero, and his companions as Daario Naharis and Prendahl na Ghezn. He captained the Second Sons, and na Ghezn captained the Stormcrows. Both leant considerable strength to the Yunkai’i armies, strength that Dany wanted.

“With all due respect,” Mero answered her, “We have a contract with Yunkai. Contracts are not easily broken.”

“Westeros is a rich realm,” Dany replied, “And I have much gold from the sack of Astapor. You would be richly rewarded if you helped restore an ancient dynasty to their seat. Oppose me, and I promise you will burn.”

“Ha!” the harsh laugh boomed across the pavilion, “I’d like to see that. Westeros is a world away. Why would I risk that?”

“The rewards are far greater –”

“I make my contracts after a great deal of thought,” Mero replied, “and I respectfully decline. Yunkai has gold. Yunkai has fine bedslaves. I am a simple man, with simple needs. Good day.”

With that, he walked out of the tent. Dany contemplated shouting after him, but instead turned her eyes to the other sellswords. Before she could speak, Prendahl na Ghezn spoke.

“I will save you your breath, Queen Daenerys,” he said with a smile in his voice, “the Stormcrows are an honourable company, and we too keep our contracts. I apologise, but our answer is no.”

“So be it,” Dany replied coolly, “Tell your Yunkish masters that, if they do not yield to me by three days hence, I will bring down their walls. Your companies will follow.”

Prendahl na Ghezn bowed deeply, and left, followed by his lieutenant, who flashed a grin at Dany. As soon as they were out of earshot, Dany leapt from her seat, and set to pacing about the pavilion. Ser Jorah rushed to comfort her, but Dany shrugged him off. She needed time to think. The Yunkish walls would give them a good defence, and while she did not doubt the aptitude of the Unsullied, it would not be easy to take the city.

At that very moment, an Unsullied entered the tent, and knelt before Dany. In his hand was a scroll of paper, which Dany took gingerly from his fingers. She dared to hope that it was a surrender from the Yunkai’i, but that was an unlikely hope. Instead, she unfurled the scroll, and read it slowly. Her indigo eyes widened, and she read it again, sure that she had been mistaken.

_Beloved Aunt,_

_I write from Volantis, where I mass an army. I hear that you are doing the same. I have won the Golden Company to our side, and they have proved their loyalty by returning a long-lost artefact of ours._

_Join me. Come to Volantis, and lend your strength to mine. The Seven Kingdoms have settled into peace, and we need to unite if we are to restore our line. The dragon must have three heads, dearest aunt. With you and I united, we need only find a third dragonrider, and Westeros will be ours._

_I have with me ten thousand hardened men, and pose little enough threat on my own. But you have near enough the same number, and three dragons. That was all our great ancestor needed to conquer Westeros once before, and that is all we will need this time._

_Yours in good faith,_

_King Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his Name, Rightful King of the Andals, Rhoynar and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

Fuming, Dany showed Ser Jorah the letter, along with the others, and tried to read their expressions. Ser Jorah’s face was stony and unreadable, but Strong Belwas seemed truly shocked, as did Arstan Whitebeard. Missandei translated for Grey Worm, but Dany doubted either truly understood the importance of this letter.

 _This changes everything,_ she realised, _this letter has just undone me._

“Is this true?” Dany asked, though she knew not who, “Is any of this true?”

“Aegon died,” Ser Jorah replied, “Tywin Lannister was very clear on that. All who were there claim to have seen the babe’s ruined corpse.”

“And who wrote this letter? It cannot be the Yunkai’i, or we would have seen the raven, thus it cannot be a trick,” Dany closed her eyes, and breathed deeply, “What do you say we do?”

“We must find the truth to these words,” Jorah replied, “Sail west, Daenerys. If what he says of Westeros is true, then you need his soldiers.”

“Or does he need mine, Ser Jorah?” Dany snapped, immediately regretting it. She turned to him, tears in her eyes, “If… if I unite with this man, whether or not he is my nephew, I lose all claim to the Iron Throne.”

“If I may speak,” Arstan Whitebeard said cautiously, “If what he says is true, then you have little hope of reclaiming Westeros. Peace could mean any number of things, but it is likely that you will be far outnumbered. I know not where this ‘Aegon’ could find ten thousand men, but I have a hunch. Daenerys, you cannot hope to hold Slaver’s Bay. You need this man just as much as he needs you.”

Dany looked to Yunkai, with its towering walls filled with slave soldiers and slave owners, and then to her army. Westeros was all she had wanted for years, all she had wanted since the day she was born. Even before Viserys’ death, she had had little chance of reclaiming her home, and what little hope she’d had faded with her beloved Drogo.

But, on the other hand, if she went to Volantis and met with ‘Aegon’, whoever he was, she’d likely be forced to be _his_ queen, in _his_ kingdom, seated below _his_ Iron Throne. They’d call him Aegon the Conqueror reborn, and her Rhaenys’ double. But no songs were ever sung of Rhaenys’ conquests. No one ever told tales of the dragonrider queens, none that didn’t feature their husband.

Dany turned to Grey Worm with sorrow in her eyes. She spoke to him in Valyrian, the only tongue he understood.

“ _Dismantle the trebuchets_ ,” she ordered, “ _Disperse the siege lines. We move on the morrow._ ”

“ _Where, my Queen?_ ”

Dany looked to Ser Jorah and Arstan Whitebeard with a sad smile on her face, “ _Westeros_.”

It didn’t take long for the siege lines to form into smaller camps. The camp remained entrenched, just in case the Yunkai’i tried anything, but Dany sent Ser Jorah into the city to negotiate a peace. Even as he left, two figures rode up the road to Dany’s pavilion.

They dismounted, and Dany recognised the blue, forked beard and keen eyes of Daario Naharis, and she saw an unfamiliar Westerosi whose skin was brown as mud. He was stout and heavily armoured. Naharis carried a hempen sack. Dany rose to greet them.

“Captain Naharis,” she smiled graciously, “your commander has already rejected my offer. I need not speak to you again.”

“The Stormcrows have a new captain,” Naharis replied, dropping the sack at Dany’s feet, “as do the Second Sons. This is Brown Ben Plumm, that new captain.”

Brown Ben Plumm knelt, and proffered his sword to Dany, “We swear ourselves to your cause, gracious Queen.”

Dany smiled weakly, “I thank you, but we are no longer fighting a war in Slaver’s Bay. I will march for Volantis on the morrow, and thence to Westeros.”

“It is no matter to us,” Naharis replied smoothly, “as long as your promises of riches were not lies.”

Dany felt her cheeks flush, “They were not, and I shall prove it to you, Captain Naharis. If you help me come into my kingdom, then I promise you thrice what the Yunkai’i have paid.”

He smirked at that, and Dany suddenly wondered what she had let herself into by swearing that. The sellswords shook hands with her, and Dany turned her attentions to the hempen sack. It seemed unremarkable, but bulged all over. It was stained with something dark near the opening, and Dany wondered what was within.

“Have you brought me a gift, Captain Naharis, Captain Plumm?” she asked softly.

Naharis smirked, his mouth full of shining white teeth. He grasped the sack and upended it, dumping its contents onto the floor of Dany’s pavilion. She tensed when she saw what fell out, doing her best not to cry out. _A queen does not cringe._

The heads of Prendahl na Ghezn and a bald Qartheen tumbled out, their eyes still rolling. Dany looked from them to Daario Naharis, and back again. There was a moment of awkward silence, before she finally spoke, her words cold.

“Why are the heads of these men on my floor?”

“These are the heads of traitors,” Naharis replied, “I took the liberty of removing them for Your Grace.”

Dany pursed her lips, but decided not to debate the point. Instead, she asked, “And where is the Titan’s Bastard? He too defied my cause.”

Brown Ben Plumm smiled apologetically, “Lay the blame on my shoulders, Your Grace. My old captain escaped with a few riders, and fled to the hills. You need not fear him.”

Satisfied, Dany invited them to sit down, and poured them some wine. Arstan started at that, but Strong Belwas held out an arm to prevent his squire from causing a fuss. Dany shot him a look, but Arstan’s face was unreadable. She frowned, but turned back to the sellswords nevertheless.

Brown Ben told her of the Westerlands, where his family hailed from. He seemed particularly interested in Dany’s family history, as he claimed to have a drop of Targaryen blood in his own veins. He laughed a lot, especially at his own jokes, and Dany found a warmth to the man, which she was surprised at. He was a sellsword, she knew, but such men had to be charismatic to gain a contract.

Naharis was a far stranger creature altogether. Tyroshi by birth, he seemed to have spent his life all across Essos fighting for whoever would have him. He carried an _arakh_ on one hip and a Myrish stiletto on the other, each’s handle carved into the likeness of a naked woman. He loved touching them; his hands never straying far from his hips.

Suddenly, Ser Jorah rode back up, grinning triumphantly. When he saw the sellswords however, his grin faded, replaced by a scowl. Dany rose, but he pushed past her, squaring up to Daario Naharis and Brown Ben.

“Who are these men?”

“Our sellsword commanders,” Dany replied, “our forces grow, Ser Jorah. We now equal the strength of my nephew. What news from Yunkai?”

A grin returned to Ser Jorah’s face, but it was only a shadow the one he had worn earlier, “They have accepted our terms,” terms which had been most hastily drawn up by Dany and her advisors, “and, in addition, have promised you five-and-twenty of their finest ships, with which to reach Volantis.”

Dany’s mood suddenly lifted. Five-and-twenty ships wasn’t much, but it would be enough. She ordered Grey Worm to check their stores, and he did so, and then to load the Unsullied onto their ships. Naharis and Brown Ben left to do the same.

Almost as soon as they were gone, Ser Jorah began telling Dany how unwise it was to trust sellswords. She made herself deaf to his anguish, and told him that they would suffice for taking Westeros.

Less than two hours later, they were aboard their ships. The mast of Dany’s flew the black dragon of Targaryen, and she smiled to see her dragons wheeling above her. The ships cast off, and set off for the setting sun. Dany turned, anxious to remember every detail of this edge of the world, for she knew in her heart that she’d never be able to return.

She cursed herself for her thoughts. _Westeros_ was before her. She was on her way _home_. Wasn’t that cause for joy, not for sadness? But even as she hoped for the Seven Kingdoms, she thought of all the slaves still in Yunkai, and in Meereen to the north. She’d hoped to liberate all of them, to give them a taste of the freedom which they had been so cruelly denied.

Dany pushed those thoughts from her head, and instead thought of what lay to the west. She would dock in Volantis, and ensure that she and this ‘Aegon’ would be of equal standing. Then, perhaps onto the Stormlands, who would be fractured. She let a smile reach her face, and entertained, for once seriously, the possibility of being Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

_For you, Rhaegar. For you, Viserys, even though I loathed you._

_For you, Drogo._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	24. Tyrion III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lion marches with the Young Wolf's army, full of foreboding for the future...

TYRION

They always told him an army marches on its stomach, but that wasn’t true of the Army of the North. Robb Stark’s army didn’t need any incentive to march save its vengeance. And Tyrion was sure that it would find plenty of that on Pyke.

They were almost at Lannisport now, if Tyrion were to judge, and would arrive in a few hours. All around him, the Westerlands stretched for a hundred leagues in every direction. Rolling hills and sweeping valleys, Tyrion appreciated, for the first time, the beauty of his home. Hopefully, the war with the Ironborn would be short, and he would be able to return home before winter. Already it was cold, and reports came from House Frey that snows had reached the Neck.

_When I return, the Rock will be empty_ , Tyrion said to himself.

_With no Lannisters but me._

Tyrion wondered, after a moment more of looking out across the Westerlands, what his position would be upon returning to the Rock. Would the Young Wolf look upon him as an equal to Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun? Likely not, as the Lord Trout rode and feasted with Stark’s northern bannermen. Tyrion, meanwhile, fed his troops on what little food trickled down from others’ tables. That didn’t sit well, especially not with men like Lyle Crakehall or Kevan Lannister, Tyrion’s own lord uncle, who had been brought to the capital by the Young Wolf as a prisoner.

Men who’d never had to work for their lord’s favour.

It was Ser Kevan who rode up beside Tyrion now, anger flashing in his green eyes.

“That bastard won’t hear me!” he growled, lion-like, “For three days I’ve _begged_ his audience. Well, no longer, I tell you! By whose authority does he refuse the lion?”

“The King’s, uncle,” Tyrion told him amiably, “our new King has every right to deny us audience. But I’ll whisper a word or two in his ear for you.”

In truth, Tyrion had no desire for such, as the Young Wolf seemed to dislike Tyrion almost as much as his mother had, but Ser Kevan’s face brightened. A moment of silence followed, before the knight spoke again.

“Tyrion – my Lord – I thank you,” Kevan started slowly, as if unsure, “I heard tell of your work in King’s Landing. I think you’ll make a fine lord.”

Tyrion smiled wryly, “My father will be glad, from where he watches us,” when Kevan’s face fell again, Tyrion took pity on the man, “I’ll do right by us,” he promised, “By our family.”

“Hear me roar.”

_Indeed_.

Tyrion looked up the column, and, against his better judgement, spurred his horse to action. The beast clumped ahead, though Tyrion cursed his twisted legs for the horse’s unwillingness to act. Bronn rode behind him, wearing a new cloak of sable wool. They rode for what seemed like an hour up the column, passing thousands of men-at-arms, spearmen, mounted cavalry and knights. Tyrion couldn’t fit the numbers in his head, which was a feat in itself.

_Say what you will about Robb Stark,_ he thought, _He knows how to field an army._

The Young Wolf himself was at the vey head of the column, surrounded by retainers. Tyrion was stopped from approaching by a grizzled man wearing armour the colour of night and a man so large his horse seemed to be about to collapse. Tyrion named them Brynden Tully and Jon Umber. Tully wore an expression of greatest disdain, as if he blamed Tyrion personally for the deaths the war had caused. Umber’s ugly face was little better, scars won at the Blackwater turning his glare into a scowl as black as Tully’s armour.

“Good morrow, ser, my Lord,” Tyrion smiled, “I seek audience with our King.”

“What business have you with the King?” Umber growled, but Tyrion held his ground.

“Nothing to concern you, my Lord,” Tyrion replied, “These matters are far too dull for a man of your… constitution.”

Umber ignored – or did not understand – the slight, and turned to Ser Brynden, who had not dragged his cold eyes away from Tyrion. The Blackfish was silent for a long moment. Then: “What makes you think the King will speak to the likes of you, Lannister?”

“As my liege lord, it is his duty to hear me,” said Tyrion glibly, “as it is my right to be heard. Now let me through, Ser. I will not ask a third time.”

Tully’s hand went to his sword, “You dare –?”

“Yes I do,” Tyrion snapped, tiring of the conversation, “I demand to be treated as is proper for my station. I may be a prisoner, but I am a Lord nonetheless.”

Tully’s eyes flashed malevolently, but a mailed hand on his shoulder stopped him from going further. A strong voice ordered the Blackfish to stay his hand, and Tyrion turned to thank his saviour. Robb Stark looked like the Warrior himself, wearing a new suit of plate armour gifted to him by Mace Tyrell as dowry for Sansa Stark’s hand. He wore a cloak of finest fur, fastened by two leaping direwolves, and strapped to his side, was the greatsword Ice, returned to its rightful master. Stark looked at Tyrion with cold eyes, but Tyrion knew that he would be unharmed with Stark here.

_Or hoped._

“Ser Brynden,” Stark’s voice was amiable, but there was a threat underneath, “I’m sure you have better things to be doing than speaking with the Imp. And you, my Lord Umber.”

The two men muttered their assents, and wheeled on their horses, riding off into the column, leaving Tyrion alone with his new King. He had a fleeting idea of making his horse kneel, to show his subservience to the Stark boy, before dismissing it.

Tyrion did find a new admiration for the boy. It was no mean feat, cowing both the Greatjon and the Blackfish at the same time. He wondered what it would be like to rule over men like that, before realising he would soon find out, as Lord of Casterly Rock.

“I thank you, Your Grace,” Tyrion smiled, “I feared I would be crushed by the giant’s fist –”

“Spare me your quips,” snapped Stark, “I have neither the time nor the patience for them. Do the Lords of the West accept our peace?”

_To business then_.

“Westerling, Banefort, Prester, Spicer, Kenning and Drox all pledge their strength to yours, Your Grace,” Tyrion reported, “And I am confident I can win around the Crakehalls and Farmans by the time we reach Lannisport.”

“Who will we find trouble with?”

“My family, principally,” Tyrion sighed, “My lord uncle lost a son to your blade, my lady aunt another to outlaws. Blood is not easily forgotten, Your Grace, as I am sure you know. Houses Lorch, Sarsfield, Broom, Swyft and Vikary have all expressed opposition to your cause.”

Stark nodded, though none of these names seemed particularly familiar to him. Tyrion thought of spelling it out for him, before he spoke again, “And you, Lord Tyrion? Are you loyal to me?”

Tyrion gave a wry smile, “You named me Lord of Casterly Rock, cast down my sweet sister and her bastard boy, and broke my father’s hold forever. I bear you no love, Your Grace, but you have my gratitude, and my sword, should I ever wield one.”

“And for that you have my thanks, Lord Tyrion,” Stark replied, “I am confident our brethren will be able to look on each other as equals in due time.”

_Equals? An odd tune for a King to play…_

“Mayhaps, though I doubt it,” Tyrion smiled sympathetically, “I may be Lord of the Rock, but I am no great leader of men. I hope my sons will be as strapping as my good brother, and as loyal to you as your Northern bannermen, but if they are not, I warn you of the West’s roar, Your Grace. You Northerners have not forgotten your days of freedom, but neither have we.”

“Is that a threat, my Lord?”

“Not at all,” Tyrion replied brusquely, “But, in order for my vassals to fall in line, you need a loyal Lord of Casterly Rock. Which you have, of course, but who’s to say what will happen a hundred years from now? Other Houses vie for power in my homeland, what if one of them gains power?”

It was Stark’s time to smile, “Galbart Glover has been in the West for months now. He is a keen diplomat, and an excellent flatterer. He’ll bring the West to my side, have no fear, my Lord of Lannister.”

Tyrion bowed his head, and they rode on in silence only broken by a few of Stark’s questions. He wanted to know Tyrion’s feelings on the war with the Greyjoys, and whether or not he had any ideas. Tyrion made several japes, as he was no commander of armies. However, he believed that Stark did find his counsel useful, and he could not fault the boy on his quest for advice.

_You may make a king yet, Robb Stark_.

Night had fallen when they reached Lannisport. Stark ordered his troops to set up camp outside the city, and Tyrion almost wished he could fly like an eagle, to see seventy thousand men setting up a temporary city near the size of Lannisport himself. The West’s – _his_ – fleet was anchored in the docks, near a hundred dromonds and cogs, all bearing the Lannister lion. Stark told him that the Reach would be sending a few dozen ships of their own from the Arbor, to aid in the transport of troops.

Tyrion almost pitied the Greyjoys when he saw the sheer size of the army, but then remembered smirking, smug Theon Greyjoy at Winterfell, and promptly forgot all about pity. He wondered what the boy would do to the Islands, presuming he won.

_Beating the ironmen at sea will be no easy feat, remember that_ , Tyrion told himself, _Even Father failed at that._

But that was long ago, and the ironmen had been on the attack back then. Now, their ships were scattered up the Northern coast, reaving in Torrhen’s Square and Deepwood Motte, perhaps even up by Bear Island. Mayhaps the Northmen would be able to slip through their defences and raze Pyke with no ship being sunk, though Tyrion doubted the gods would be so kind.

In the distance, he could see the Rock itself, punching into the sky like a giant fist, towering over all around it. It was one of the largest structures in the world, he knew that, a castle carved into the side of a mountain, a feat easily equal to those of Storm’s End and Winterfell, or so Tyrion thought.

An hour after arriving, Tyrion and his lords were sent for by the Young Wolf. They rode into Lannisport, and Tyrion saw scores of smallfolk poking their heads out of their windows, likely confused by the direwolf banners flying from the armoured men. They met Stark in the centre of the city, in a great wooden hall.

Stark sat in a makeshift throne, before half a hundred lords, knights and other landed men. Tyrion took his place at Stark’s left elbow, with Lord Edmure Tully on his right, the Lords Paramount of the new Northern Kingdom. Beside them stood the remnants of Stark’s war council; the enormous figure of the Greatjon cast the others into shadow, but he could still make out the features of Lord Rickard Karstark and the Blackfish. Ser Aenys Frey had been cut down in the Battle of King’s Landing, though Tyrion doubted any would mourn his loss.

Below stood more lords than Tyrion had ever seen; leathered Northmen mixed with puffed-up Westermen and scowling Rivermen. He counted at least seven Freys, along with Manderlys, Boltons, Blackwoods, Glovers, Marbrands, Westerlings, Baneforts, Mootons and a score of others.

_Seven bloody hells_ , Tyrion thought to himself, _half of bloody Westeros is in attendance!_

The lords raised quite a clamour, but silence slowly fell as the King in the North raised his hand. The Northmen hushed almost instantly, though the Westermen took a little more persuading.

“Tomorrow,” Stark announced, “We sail for Pyke. But first, we have some business to attend to. Lord Tyrion, I would have you speak.”

Tyrion stepped forwards, acutely aware of his mismatched legs, mismatched eyes, scarred features and short stature. Every eye in the room fell on him, and he cleared his throat nervously.

“My lords,” Tyrion began, “I thank you for your attendance tonight. I did not look forward to supping alone with the Freys!”

Laughter greeted that, though it was short lived, after glares from Black Walder and his brothers. Tyrion cleared his throat again, before speaking solemner words than had ever before left his lips.

“The war is nearly over, my lords,” he continued, “We have only to crush the ironmen, and we will all be able to return to our homes before winter comes on in full strength. Therefore, I implore you to join me in bending the knee to this new king. After the part my family had in the deaths of his, I count myself lucky indeed to stand before you today. I name Robb Stark my King, and a just one at that.”

He knelt, because that felt like the right thing to do, feeling the pressures of dozens of eyes on his back. The Northmen knelt to, as did the riverlords, though a good deal Westermen remained on their feet. Ser Addam Marbrand spoke up, his voice cold.

“I’ll never call a Stark my King, nor an Imp my Lord.”

The Greatjon’s hand went to his sword, “Then you’ll call my blade your end, Marbrand.”

“Come fight me then oaf,” Marbrand spat back, “I’ll gladly take you and yours.”

“Enough.” Stark growled, and Tyrion was surprised that they both stopped, “There’ll be no bad blood here. We have other enemies. There’s a feast to be had tonight. Both of you get drunk together, and end the night as friends. That goes for all of you. I’ll not have a kingdom of enemies.”

Marbrand spat on the ground, “There’s for your kingdom, Stark.”

He walked out, followed by Ser Kevan Lannister, Ser Benedict Broom, Lord Tytos Sarsfield, Ser Harys Swyft, Ser Lymond Vikary, Ser Lyle Crakehall and half a dozen others. Tyrion rolled his eyes, and wondered what feeble rebellion would come of that, though he could not ignore the despair in his heart. That is, until Lord Quenten Banefort stepped forward. He had been a captive these long months, and his once plump figure had thinned considerably.

“I’ll follow you, and my sons too. We want peace, and if that means swearing my sword to the Imp, I’ll take it.”

“Aye,” said Gawen Westerling, “I’ll take it too.”

A chorus of “ayes” filled the room, and Tyrion took heart.

_Half the men of Westeros._

_Not bad, Stark. Not bad at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	25. The Broken Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Broken Wolf hides beneath Winterfell...

THE BROKEN WOLF

_Night fell across the realm. And with the dark, came the cold._

_He was high in the sky, so high he could see the clouds below him, and below them, the Seven Kingdoms were spread out like a map. Far to the south, a warm Dornish breeze blew, as though summer would last forever. He could smell the fields of the Reach, hear the rumble of thunder in the Stormlands, and taste the salt of the Iron Islands._

_But when he turned his eyes north, he felt a shiver of dread unlike any man had felt in thousands of years._

_For, to the north, beyond that great Wall, beyond the thousands upon thousands of wildlings struggling to climb it, beyond the frozen forests of the wild-lands, something else stirred. Something all the Kings of Westeros would not be able to stop, even if they united like never before._

_The boy shivered again, and turned his eyes west, to the sea that never ended. There raged a battle so fierce, the boy wondered whether there would be any survivors. A snarling direwolf and a slavering lion clawed at an enormous kraken, whilst below, a fierce trout nipped at the kraken’s belly. Blood filled the waves, but the boy could not tell from which beast, for they all bled in equal amount._

_Further south now, to see what went on in the lands his sisters had travelled to, oh so long ago now. But only one was there, only the elder. He searched in vain for the wild one, but she was nowhere to be found. He caught the scent of dog, though he disregarded that._

The wolf does not concern itself with dogs, _he told himself, and looked deeper._

_He looked all around the world, searching for answers. In the mountains, a mockingbird nested with the falcons, and a woman garbed in flame wrapped her arms around a battle-hardened stag. Finally, the boy turned his eyes east, to see what lay beyond the narrow sea._

_He saw little of interest, to be sure. The titan sat sick in his bed, and the elephants and tigers paced around each other. The boy saw a great black dragon, sailing across the sea, and swooped down to get a closer look._

_The dragon woke, and regarded him with steely black eyes. It opened its mouth, and a torrent of fire bathed him._

He woke up with a scream in his throat. A hard hand clamped over his mouth, and he struggled wildly, his useless legs refusing to obey him.

“Hush, little lord,” Osha’s quiet voice stopped his struggles, “You don’t want the ironmen to hear us.”

Brandon Stark, Prince of Winterfell, younger brother of the King in the North, ceased his struggles in an instant. It all came crashing back in that instant, the memories that the dream hid from him. Of how Winterfell had fallen in the night, not to a great army, nor to the marches of the legions of the dead that walked in the night, but to five-and-twenty ironmen under the command of Theon Greyjoy, Father’s old ward.

_Theon was our brother_ , Bran’s heart always sank to remember, _now he’s the Greyjoy in Winterfell._

The crypts were dark, and they were in so far that all the torches had turned to dust, as the weight of thousands of years, and hundreds of generations of Starks threatened to crush them. If Osha hadn’t found those flints, Bran wondered exactly what would have happened to them.

_Probably turned into one of the creatures in Old Nan’s tales_.

He closed his eyes, and pushed the image of the old lady from his mind. He had no idea where she was, or even if she was still alive. Like as not, Theon had killed her, the same as the rest of the castlefolk, or perhaps banished them to the Winter Town. Bran didn’t know how old she was, only that she’d come to Winterfell to nurse some other Brandon Stark, who lived a long time ago, though how long nobody knew. Not even Old Nan.

Once he had stopped moving, Osha moved away, proceeding to hunch over by the fire, holding her knees to her chest. The way the flames flickered over her hard face seemed to take the years away, and her ratty hair and grey eyes made her look much like Bran’s older sister, Arya. He shook his head, and the image was gone.

Osha wasn’t the only one around the fire; short, skinny Jojen Reed sat by his sister, his eyes closed and legs crossed. Meera herself was fiddling with her spear, a look of forced concentration on her face. Hodor sat alone, apart from everyone, playing with the dust on the floor, and Rickon lay curled up, between Osha and Jojen.

_What a strange group we make._

_The wildling, the crannogmen, the wolf brothers and the stableboy._

Bran chuckled, thinking that one day they’d write a song about them, the six strange people hiding from the fierce ironmen. Not that Theon’s lot _were_ particularly fierce. They’d bandied about fierce words, to be sure, but Bran knew now that words were wind.

The silence continued for some time, as it always seemed to do, before Meera let out a grunt, and threw her spear onto the ground.

“How long must we wait?”

“For as long as it takes,” her brother replied softly, “The ironmen still hold the castle. We must wait until the axe strikes the chains that bind us.”

“Speak sense!” Meera cried, to a glare from Osha, “ _What_ axe? I trust you, Jojen, but you need to tell me something I can understand.”

Jojen looked at her with a sad look in his moss-coloured eyes, “I see what I see, Meera. No more, and no less. And I have seen us free, and the ironmen routed. But we must wait.”

Meera greeted that with a glare of her own, and picked up her spear again, “I mislike waiting.”

Jojen gave a half-smile, “You always did.”

Silence fell once more, and Bran propped himself up against the nearest tombstone, and tried to get more comfortable. They had no way of telling how long they had been down here, who knew how much time had passed? Maybe winter had come and gone, maybe Robb had returned, but not thought to look for them, maybe he was himself buried and gone, and it was _his_ sons who ruled Winterfell. As unlikely as Bran thought it, the queer half-light the fire had gave the crypts a sense of… timelessness.

Reasoning he had nothing better to do, Bran closed his eyes, and went back to sleep. As soon as the darkness surrounded him the dreams started…

_This time, he was a raven, perched in the chambers of the chained man. The boy he was had never been here, but the bird who’s skin he wore lived here, and scarce left, save to take a message to this man-nest or that man-nest._

_The chained man was there, the man this bird called ‘master’, but he wasn’t alone. The boy was there, the boy with the bow, but he was a boy no longer, a man now, a man with a kraken on his metal chest. He held one of those long, steel talons that men ofttimes carried, and his teeth were bared in ferocity. He was flanked by two other men, each with leather suits on their bodies, and steel talons by their sides._

_“Who is the message from?” the man was asking, “Answer me, Luwin, or I’ll have your head on a pike!”_

_“Your lord father, Theon.” his master’s voice was broken, and he handed over the paper with a trembling hand._

_“_ Royal _father, Luwin,” the man replied coldly, “Best you remember that.”_

_He unfurled the paper and read it, his cool grey eyes slowly making their way back and forth. His face changed little, but those grey eyes showed a maelstrom of emotions, many of which the raven did not comprehend. There was curiosity in there, and victory, but also pain, loss and a deep sorrow._

_“Is this true?” he asked, his voice… uncertain, “My father has killed Catelyn Stark?”_

_Wordlessly, the raven’s master nodded his head, and the other man crushed the paper in his fingers, breathing deeply through his nose. Emotions and thoughts whirled across his face, faster and faster, before he settled on grim determination._

_“They’ll come for us now,” he muttered, “The whole fucking North will be at my gates within the week.”_

_“They won’t be your gates much longer, my lord.”_

_“_ Prince! _” the man cried, striking the raven’s master, “Or have you forgotten that my father has crowned himself? And thank you, old man, for reminding me of my position.” he turned to the men behind him, “Leave us. I would speak to this old man alone.”_

_The men stood still for a moment, exchanging glances, before bowing their heads, and leaving the room. The prince sat down heavily, and glared heavily at the wall for a moment, before the chained man spoke._

_“It would be wise to leave,” he said softly, “leave Winterfell to the Northmen, and flee, save yourselves.”_

_“And go where?” the prince asked, “Robb’s attacking the Iron Islands, like as not, and the whole damn North’s after me and my men. We’ve nowhere to go.”_

_“You could go to the Wall. A man’s crimes are forgiven there, and you could rise high in the Night’s Watch.”_

_The prince ground his teeth, “Ned Stark’s bastard’s at the Wall, or did you forget that too?” he growled, “Like as not, I’ll wake up one morning with my throat slit, courtesy of Jon Snow.”_

_“What will you do?”_

_“The only thing I fucking can,” the prince snapped, though there was defeat even as he spat defiantly; “I’m going to fight.”_

Bran opened his eyes, and saw Jojen leaning over him. The crannogman’s eyes were a green as deep as the forests they resembled, and about as mysterious. They searched Bran, as though he were hiding some great, terrible secret, and he sat up, his own eyes darting about, looking for Rickon.

_Gods, not Mother too…_

_Tell me it isn’t true._

“What did you see, Bran?” Jojen asked impatiently, “Tell me what you saw?”

“It was…” Bran trailed off, trying to collect himself, “I was in Maester Luwin’s chambers, I think, as a raven. And… and Theon was there too, he was speaking to Maester Luwin. He said… he said… he said that…”

And all of a sudden, Bran couldn’t speak, as the enormity of the scene he had just witnessed came crashing down on him, harder and stronger than all the darkness in these fell crypts. Mother was dead, of that Bran was somehow certain, and the vision confirmed it. When they were like that, he knew he was seeing things as they really were, not the strange, twisted sights that Jojen saw, of axes striking chains and waters in Winterfell. Mother was really dead, and that meant Robb was going to fight the Iron King on his Iron Islands.

“Mother…” he whispered, “They killed Mother, and now Robb’s going to fight them. At least, I think he is, Theon didn’t say, but he said that the North will be coming for him, with all of their power.”

Jojen’s eyes widened, “The axe…” he whispered, before looking to Bran again.

“Find Summer,” he ordered, “Find your wolf, Bran. We need to know where the army is, how far away it is. Then,” he added, turning to his sister, “Then we’ll know when we can get out of here.”

Bran closed his eyes, but his thoughts were too scattered to find a hold of himself, much less a hold over Summer. He breathed three times very deeply, and tried to calm his racing thoughts, but it was no good. He closed his eyes again, but nothing happened. He was still a broken little boy laying in the crypts of his forefathers.

“I-I _can’t_ ,” Bran told Jojen, “I just can’t focus.”

“You have to, Bran,” Jojen replied forcefully, “You _must_ find out what is happening!”

Bran nodded, his body trembling with… with fear, or excitement, or trepidation, or all three and none of them all at the same time, and closed his eyes, trying to ignore all of that pain inside of him, to push away his fear, to replace it with an ocean of calm feelings.

Suddenly, he wasn’t in the crypts anymore, but he was still in Winterfell. Bran’s body jerked as Summer bounded about above, but his vision was cut off as his hurt came back with a vengeance, and he was thrown back into his body with enough force to jolt him against the wall. Bran’s breaths came out fast and hurried, and Jojen once again asked him what was happening.

“There was a battle,” Bran told him, “Thirty ironmen against three-thousand Northmen.”

Jojen’s eyes lit up, and he scrambled to his feet, pulling Meera up as he did so. His face was alight with energy that Bran had never seen in him, and the same could be seen for Meera, as she looked at Jojen as one might look at a madman. He also pulled Osha to her feet, and scrambled to wake Rickon, who cried out in shock as Jojen whooped in jubilation. Hodor also started at Jojen’s outburst.

“Hodor!” the giant stableboy yelled as Jojen cried out again, “Hodor, Hodor, Hodor!”

“Hodor indeed!” Jojen cried, “Go and pick up Bran, for I believe it is time to leave these crypts!”

“Hodor?”

“Hodor,” Bran said, “Come over here and pick me up.”

“Hodor.” said Hodor, stooping to obey.

Jojen took off down the flickering walkway, his shouts echoing off the stone Starks. Meera raced after him, cuffing him over the ear as she did.

“Have you lost your mind?” she scolded, “Those ironmen want our blood.”

“They’ll be wanting no more, sister,” Jojen told her, “and the Northmen will want to see Bran, for sure.”

“Hang on, crannogman,” growled Osha, “What makes you so certain that these Northmen will be on our side.”

Jojen gave a lopsided grin, “This was meant to be.”

With that, he tore away from Meera, but thankfully stopped dancing around like a fool, and walked with them. After a while of walking, his face had – once again thankfully – resumed its customary solemn look.

They came up the steps to the sounds of dying men, with only a few rings of steel to interrupt the groans. Bran urged Hodor onward, towards the great courtyard, to see what was happening there.

Three men sat astride their horses, all garbed for battle, all blood spattered and stern-faced. Ser Rodrik Cassel’s white whiskers stood out a mile, and beside him was Cley Cerwyn, and beside him was a solemn Leobald Tallhart. It was Leobald Tallhart whose eyes strayed to where Bran and Hodor stood, and his face turned white as a sheet.

“By the gods,” he whispered, tapping Ser Rodrik to attract his attention, “They were dead.”

“Brandon!” Ser Rodrik practically cheered, and dismounted, running to were Bran sat astride Hodor, “Gods be good boy, what happened to you?”

“We hid, Ser Rodrik,” Bran told him, “We hid in the crypts, and waited for our rescue.”

Ser Rodrik smiled, but then remembered his courtesies. He bowed deeply, as did the remaining Northmen, “The castle is ours, my prince. Only five-and-forty of ours lay dead, while all of the ironmen were slain,” his face darkened, “All save one.”

“Theon Turncloak got away,” Cley Cerwyn told Bran, “But don’t worry, my prince. We’ll find him.”

“First bury our dead,” Bran replied, “Our first duty is to the North, and the people who call it home. Theon won’t get far alone. Send for Maester Luwin as well, for the wounded.”

 A small smile crossed Ser Rodrik’s features, “It will be done, my prince.”

And with that, he strode off to find Maester Luwin, as men tore down the golden kraken of Greyjoy, and returned the running direwolf to its rightful place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	26. Robb V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Young Wolf meets the forces of the Old Kraken

ROBB

The Iron Islands were even more shit-stained and piss-poor than Robb had imagined.

The sky was grim and a light rain was falling, which did nothing to dispel the view of this land as a grey, cold, despondent one. The sand beneath Robb’s feet was wet and grey as the sky above it, and the sea… well, the sea _was_ grey, but not so much anymore.

Now the waves that lapped the shore were a deep red, the salty water made saltier by the blood of thousands of Westermen, Ironborn, Rivermen and Northmen alike. All bled in equal measure, and the Iron Fleet had given Robb’s navy one hell of a fight, but the sheer numbers at Robb’s command eventually overwhelmed them.

_It’s a damn good thing they weren’t at full strength._

_We’d have never prevailed without that help._

The help in question was still offshore, fighting their way round to storm the castle of Pyke from the north. Robb was with twenty thousand Northmen and Rivermen, mounting a full-front assault on the southern side of the castle. His other forces were scattered across the Islands; the Blackfish was leading an assault on Great Wyk with fifteen thousand men, and Robb had reluctantly allowed Ser Forley Prester to attack Orkmont with the majority of Robb’s Westermen army, under Tyrion Lannister’s promise that they would take no action unless commanded by Robb himself. The Greatjon was on Saltcliffe with another ten thousand men, and, last he had heard, the island was putting up a fierce resistance.

“You’d do well not to trust that one, my King,” Lord Rickard Karstark had advised Robb, a sneer on his lips.

“I am your most powerful bannerman, King Robb,” the Imp himself had spoken up in his own defence, as none other seemed willing, “And I could sink your war simply by leaving my men in Lannisport. Yet here they are, and here we are. You need not trust me yet, but allow me to prove my worth to you.”

And so, Robb had relented, as he hoped Father would have, were he in command, though he truly had no idea what Eddard Stark would have done in this situation. It hurt his head to think about it, and it hurt his heart to think on Father at all.

But, for now, the Imp seemed trustworthy. After all, he’d supplied Robb with four score ships from Lannisport, each one holding several hundred men. Robb was slightly disappointed that a good deal of his strength had to be left behind, but winter was coming, and the North, Riverlands and Westerlands needed men to bring in the harvest before it came much further.

_This war has gone on for too long._

_I mean to bring an end to it today._

And so, he was here, on the shore of Pyke, at the head of an army twenty thousand strong. At his side stood the Smalljon Umber, Dacey Mormont, Olyvar Frey, Ser Raynald Westerling and Owen Norrey. Grey Wind prowled at his heels, and he unsheathed Ice from the scabbard at his back. The sword was bloody big, but it was light as his old broadsword, and somehow felt _right_ in his hands.

As his men piled onto the shore, Robb spared a glance behind him, to see the devastation the Iron Fleet had wreaked on his own ships. Near half his navy was sunk, wooden hulls surrounded by floating, bloated corpses, in grey and gold alike.

_A month ago, these men fought on opposite sides of the Blackwater._

_Now they’ll die on the same side of Pyke._

Life was full of those little ironies. Likely the men didn’t care who they fought against, so long as it meant them going home at the end of it. And, in that moment, Robb could hardly blame them.

He raised Ice above his head, the smoky steel glinting in the wan morning light, and roared a battle cry that was taken up by the legion behind him.

“ _FOR THE NORTH!”_

Other cries were taken up with equal strength. From his Westermen, Robb heard “ _HALFMAN! FOR THE HALFMAN!_ ” heard the Riverlords cry “ _TULLY! TULLY!_ ” but he heard a good deal more voices drown out all the rest with their bellows of “ _THE YOUNG WOLF! CHARGE FOR THE YOUNG WOLF!_ ”

They met the Ironborn in a fierce _crunch_ of blades and bones about halfway up the shoreline. Robb’s first man wielded an iron short sword, but he didn’t even get a chance to swing it, as Robb buried Ice in his belly, the Valyrian steel sliding through the man’s boiled leather like an axe through cheese. Around him, his guard struck down Ironborn warriors wherever they came at them.

After Dacey Mormont felled a particularly brutal-looking reaver, he looked at her with a grin on his face, “Leave some for me, would you?”

Dacey buried her axe in a greybeard’s face, and pulled it out as she laughed, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Robb shrugged, and met the next man’s sword with a grunt. The brute was a foot taller than Robb, with dull grey eyes and a shiny bald head. He wielded an axe that whistled as it cut through the air. Robb grinned as he parried the man’s blow, before ducking under the next one. His steel sang as it sliced upwards, the other man barely moving aside in time.

_This is more like it._

Robb slashed wide, then low, then high, pushing the large man back. The man wasn’t as good at fighting as Robb was, but he his axe was bloody big, and he had bloody big arms to swing it with. Robb took a glancing blow to his left thigh, and stumbled back, wincing as blood trickled down his leg. He rolled back, thanking the gods that the next cut hadn’t taken his head. Suddenly, he came to the realisation that this brute was strong enough to kill him, and not for lack of bloody trying. Robb stood shakily, and barely got his sword up against the next blow. He took it badly, and Ice nearly slipped from his hands. He stumbled, and the ground rushed up to meet him.

The next thing he knew, the huge man stood above him, axe high above his head. Thoughts raced through Robb’s head; himself and Jon playing in the godswood as boys, pretending to be Theon the Hungry Wolf, or Bran the Builder, or Joramun and the Brandon he fought with. He saw Sansa and Arya arguing, and he saw Bran climbing. He saw Mother and Father, standing together by a heart tree, and they seemed to be reaching out to him. Robb closed his eyes, and waited for the final blow to come…

But it never did. The dull thump of a body next to him opened his eyes. The bald oaf lay dead in a puddle of his own blood, and a hand was being offered to Robb. He took it, and looked up, and saw a stout youth with dark hair and a hooded man on his surcoat.

“Thank you,” Robb said shakily.

“Least I could do, Your Grace,” the man replied gruffly, “Ser Morgan Banefort.”

Robb smiled, “You have saved my life, Ser Morgan, and now I owe you a debt.”

“Think nothing of it,” Ser Morgan told him, “Your my King now, it’s my duty to do that.”

With that, his sword was back in his hand, and Ser Morgan Banefort disappeared into the pressing throng of bodies. They were definitely winning, due to numbers and pure bloody-mindedness. Robb rushed forward, Grey Wind bounding out of nowhere, blood on his pelt and a halfhelm in his maw.

“Where in the hells have you been?” Robb growled at the wolf, though in truth he was glad to see him alive. Grey Wind, for his part, only looked at Robb with his beautiful golden eyes.

They pressed forward, taking three men for every one they lost, and soon they were climbing the hill towards Pyke itself. The defence was thicker here, stronger too. Clearly the men they’d encountered before were little more than fodder for their steel, and now came the true test. Robb’s guard surrounded him, and they made a push for the front line. The Greyjoy men had other ideas though, and a hail of arrows rained down on Robb’s forces.

Screams issued from dozens of his men, though some weren’t even as lucky as that, falling before they even saw the arrows falling from above. Beside him, the Smalljon cried out in pain, and fell, clutching his leg. Robb turned, trying to help his friend, but the Umber man was swallowed by the host. Mouth set in a grim line, Robb turned his eyes towards the castle.

“Come on,” he said to his guard, and they surged forward once more.

As they drew closer to the castle itself, the doors were thrown open, and hundreds of men poured out, led by a warrior wearing a boiled leather armour and an iron halfhelm, clutching twin axes by his side. He roared an order to his men, who ran straight at Robb’s army in a tight bunch. Robb himself met their charge with a bellow of rage, his sword cutting down Ironborn left and right.

“ _STARK!_ ”

Robb wheeled around to meet the shout, and saw the axe-wielding warrior in front of him, pulling an axe from Owen Norrey’s lifeless chest.

“ _COME PAY THE IRON PRICE!_ ”

_Gladly._

Robb ran at the man, at met his first strike with Ice, though the warrior before him seemed more agile than Robb had suspected, ducking under Robb’s counter-attack, and rolling forward, to strike at Robb’s exposed leg. The King in the North dodged the blow, and brought his sword down…

…missing by less than a hair’s breath. The warrior ducked again, and slipped to the side.

“Take of that helm!” Robb roared, “Let me see the man who challenges me.”

“Oh, I’m no man, Stark,” the warrior said, throwing her halfhelm on the ground, releasing a wave of dark hair, “But I mean to prick you all the same.”

With that, and a smirk on her face, she darted towards him, spinning axes in her hands, raining blows on the King in the North. Robb blocked and parried every single one, though not easily. This woman was castle-trained, a true warrior, like no woman he’d ever seen. She was the clear equal of some of Robb’s best fighters, perhaps even a man like the Blackfish.

“ _Who are you?_ ” he asked, as a strike brought her close enough to count the pimple-scars on her nose.

“My name is Asha Greyjoy,” she told him, using her axe to shave the side of his head, an inch from his ear, “the Kraken’s Daughter. You may have met my fool brother. Rest assured, Young Wolf, you’ll have more of a challenge bending _me_ to your will.”

“Very well,” Robb said, grinning slightly, “Let’s see what your words are worth, Asha Greyjoy.”

She replied with a smirk, and rushed him, axes whirling. He blocked two of her blows, and roared as a third bit into the mail at his side. He was stronger than her, but heavier, weighed down by water and mail and the steel in his hands. She was small and fast, but unarmoured. He’d only need to land one strike…

It seemed that she knew that too, as she deftly defied his every attempt to land that crucial blow. She was faster than him, and she damn well knew it, judging from the taunts she sent his way. Asha Greyjoy’s every word was a jest, every sentence a jape at Robb’s stumbling expense, his huge sword proving more a hindrance than a help in these close quarters.

“You’re a handsome one,” she told him, after cutting at his chest once again, “Mayhaps once this battle’s done I’ll take a wolf into my bed. All Ironborn men have salt wives, why shouldn’t I take a salt husband?”

Robb roared a guttural response, and feinted low. Asha Greyjoy took the bait, and he slammed Ice’s pommel into her gut. She was lifted off of her feet, and thrown onto the ground, her axes scattered. Asha sat up, and coughed, the grin beginning to slip.

“And you’re strong too,” she laughed, though Robb wasn’t convinced, “As all men are in the battlefield. Though I wonder if you’re as floppy as your lord uncle in a bedroom.”

Robb growled, “Shut up.”

But she only laughed again, and leapt up, picking up a fallen man’s sword, raising it above her head. She swung low, and Robb smiled. Axes were stupid, but he knew swords. Swords were what he was good at.

The reverse was clearly true of Asha Greyjoy. With her axes, Robb would have been lucky to walk away with a head on his shoulders, but her sword skills were patchy and it was clear she hadn’t used one for years. Her blocks were clumsy, but her speed was still there, and she was a quick learner. Robb had to end this. Now.

He rushed in, bulling into her with his shoulder. Asha was thrown back, stumbling, but regained her balance. She came back harder than Robb had anticipated, her sword blurring with her strikes. She was clearly warming to the weapon, and Robb’s smirk turned to a wolf’s snarl. He gripped Ice with both hands, and struck her weapon with all of his might, and felt the crunch of steel breaking steel. With Ice in his hands, he could see why Valyrian weapons were so damn valuable and sought-after. The blade cut like nothing else, and he intended to use that advantage to the full.

Asha didn’t wait for him to attack again, getting in close and drawing a small knife. She jabbed it into his side, and Robb roared with agony. The tiny blade had pierced his mail, though he knew he’d live, and so he tried to ignore the pain. But, while he pulled the dagger from his side, Asha Greyjoy raised her sword above her head, and brought it down. Robb did the first thing that came into his mind.

He caught the sword.

White hot knives of pain seared down his arm as the steel bit into his flesh, but the leather over his hand stopped the worst of the blow. Wincing, he glared at Asha Greyjoy with all the fury of winter, whose stunned face looked almost comical. Then, with a mighty roar, he brought up Ice, and cut her blade off at the hilt, and kicked her in the chest. Asha stumbled back, tumbling over.

Robb strode over, and placed a foot on her chest, keeping her there. He pointed Ice at her throat.

“Yield,” he told her, “Yield and I will make you my Lady of the Iron Islands, after this battle is done. Yield and we will have peace.”

Asha’s face turned red with rage, “I’ll _never_ bend my knee to a greenlander, much less a Stark.”

Robb clenched his jaw, and spoke again, his heart thudding in his chest, “ _Yield_ my lady, and spare your own life, and the lives of your men, your _people_.”

He pressed his sword into her breastplate, the metal twisting and buckling under the Valyrian blade. Asha’s grey eyes narrowed, and she slumped, holding out her hands in surrender.

“Alright, Stark,” she growled, “I’ll accept your bloody peace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	27. Tyrion IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Young Wolf serves justice to the Reavers

TYRION

The Iron Islands were fully subdued. They’d bled the army sent to take them, and made Robb Stark pay dearly for his efforts, but the Islands were subdued nonetheless. Tyrion wondered if this was what Robert Baratheon had felt after _he’d_ taken the Iron Islands nearly eleven years ago. This strange, empty feeling after seeing his men die on their ships, not even dying with solid ground beneath their feet.

Tyrion doubted it. Robert Baratheon didn’t feel remorse, he didn’t feel sorrow for those he lost along the way inhis kingship. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, but Tyrion had half-hoped that becoming Lord of Casterly Rock would harden his heart against the deaths of men. Apparently not.

He was sitting in the great hall of Pyke now, with many of Stark’s generals. They had not yet heard from the Greatjon, though the Blackfish and Ser Forley Prester had reported back successes, and were with them today. The Blackfish had been very matter-of-fact about the subjugation of Great Wyk, handing Stark a sheet of paper with the numbered dead and wounded, and the signatures and seals of the Lords of Great Wyk, acknowledging their surrender, but Ser Forley Prester had been positively bouncing when he announced his success to the Young Wolf. Stark had been impressed, and apologised to Ser Forley for mistrusting his commitment and honour. Tyrion couldn’t have imagined a bigger smile than the one that grew across Forley’s face at that praise, and Tyrion himself rolled his mismatched eyes.

_That one’s a good commander, but he’d just as soon make a good fool_.

They now sat around a great table, with Stark’s war council having grown to accommodate some of Tyrion’s lords. Alongside the Blackfish, Lord Karstark and Stark himself sat Lord Edmure Tully, Ser Forley Prester, Lord Quenten Banefort and – of course – Tyrion himself. They were currently discussing what exactly to do with the Iron Islands.

“Burn them to the ground,” Ser Brynden was saying, “I never trusted the Ironborn, and I don’t trust them to stay broken when we leave these cursed Islands.”

“And what message will that send to your other enemies, Your Grace?” Tyrion asked, indicating himself and the two other Westermen, “The last King who burned those who resisted him found a sword in his back. And we all know whose sword it was.”

Stark looked at him with a strange look, “Whose side are you on, my Lord of Lannister?”

“My own, Your Grace,” Tyrion replied, “But my side is your side, as I have told you countless times. Make an example, yes, as you Kings are wont to do, but make it as small and clean as possible.”

Stark chewed that over for a moment, before turning to his other advisors, “Have you anything to say?”

“Blood for blood,” Karstark growled, “The ironmen came into our lands, and slew our countrymen. We should do the same for them!”

_This one only sings one tune_ , Tyrion mused, _and it’s never a sweet one at that._

Lord Quenten Banefort suggested a truce with the Ironborn that let them out of this, though one with strict terms, but Lord Edmure supported his uncle, to the surprise of none, though Tyrion was heartened by Ser Forley and Lord Quenten agreeing with him, likely because they worried for their own position under the Young Wolf’s rule, despite showing him support early on in his reign.

Eventually, Stark stood, and the table fell silent.

“I’ve heard enough,” he said, his voice like cold steel, “Thank you for your counsel, my Lords. I –”

“ _WHERE IS MY SON?!?!?_ ”

The bellow seemed to rock the very stones of Pyke, and Tyrion turned round in his chair, to see the Greatjon striding into the room, flanked by a stout ironman with a neat, grey beard and Galbart Glover, the latter carrying a roll of parchment, which he put into the Blackfish’s waiting hand.

“ _WHERE IS HE?_ ” the Greatjon roared again, and Tyrion felt the urge to run and hide.

Robb Stark was made of sterner stuff however, “Jon is resting,” he spoke calmly, “he took an arrow to the thigh in the battle, but the maesters tell me he will recover.”

The Greatjon scowled, “I trust someone put a sword in the belly of the fucker who did it?”

“Aye, my lord, I believe so.”

“Good,” the Greatjon rumbled, looking out across the war council, “What’s to be done with his lot?”

He gestured behind him, to the neat-looking ironman, who Tyrion would otherwise have mistaken for an innkeep. He had a plain face, besides the beard, and a white scythe embroidered on his breast. Tyrion searched his memory for that sigil, before remembering.

_Harlaw_.

So, this was the Ironborn leader who’d knelt before the Stark boy without even a battle. Tyrion had heard reports of Rodrik the Reader’s surrender from a Stark messenger before his own battle on Orkmont, and had wondered what this man would be like. Suffice it to say, Tyrion wasn’t surprised this man had bent the knee without a fight. He looked like he couldn’t lead a fish to water, let alone an army to a battlefield. Rodrik Harlaw knelt before Stark, who waved him up graciously.

“We haven’t decided what to do with the Ironborn, but I know that the old way cannot be allowed to continue,” Robb Stark intoned, “It has proved a destructive lifestyle for the Ironborn and mainlanders both. Lords Karstark and Tully have advised that I leave the Iron Islands for the crows, but Lords Banefort and Lannister and Ser Prester suggest that I allow them to flourish, either under their own rule or my own. What say you, Lord Umber?”

The Greatjon grunted, “S’not often I agree with a Karstark, but it happens. The Ironborn don’t mean shit to us, Your Grace. If you sink these Islands beneath the waves, no-one’ll mourn.”

Stark took a deep breath, and drummed his gloved fingers on the table, before rising slowly and walking around the table. He turned the Blackfish, “Send in Balon Greyjoy.”

“Aye, my King.”

The Blackfish swept from the room, and an uncomfortable silence descended on the group. Rodrik the Reader looked about awkwardly, quite outnumbered in this room full of greenlanders. Tyrion almost pitied him, but the man had been an enemy not too long ago, before he had lent ships and men to Stark’s cause. It was he, and Lords Blacktyde and Botley who had secured Old Wyk for the Stark cause, something which the Young Wolf was likely very grateful for, though cautious to reward no doubt.

_This is war._

_You don’t reward turncloaks, even if they turned from t’other side._

Balon Greyjoy, former King of the Iron Islands, Lord Reaper of Pyke and Son of the Sea Wind, was brought in shackled and cowed, his faded robes flapping about his stumbling legs. Tyrion was almost disappointed; he had been a boy of sixteen when Balon Greyjoy’s rebellion failed, and his brother had come back with tales of the would-be Kraken King with his scowl as fierce as Stannis Baratheon’s glare, and shoulders as strong as Robert’s warhammer. That man was clearly long gone, and a shade stood in his place.

The Blackfish forced Balon Greyjoy forward, and the Iron King looked up at Robb Stark with grey eyes tinged red at the corners, “M-my daughter, Stark? Do you have news of my daughter? And what of Theon?”

Stark’s face did not change, though Tyrion saw something behind those sky-blue eyes, “Lady Asha mounted a fine defence, and cost many good lives. I fought her, and she yielded to me. She is below, seeing to her men. I cannot speak as to the health of Theon Turncloak,” fury crossed Stark’s features, “Though I can tell you that he will not survive long in the North.”

Balon Greyjoy was speechless for a moment, before falling at Stark’s feet, snivelling pitifully, “Great gods, what have I done? My first rebellion cost me my eldest sons, now I lose another? Mercy, my Lord, mercy, please I beg of you. For my last son, Theon, the boy you grew up with, my boy. _Please!_ ”

“The turncloak is not here,” Stark growled, “It is your fate which we are here to decide.”

Greyjoy’s lip trembled, “Let me bend the knee, my Lord,” he sobbed, “I swear to never take up arms against you or your House ever again, I swear it by the Drowned God, by the old gods of your father’s faith, by the Seven of your mother’s. The Iron Islands can make you rich with our ships, we can trade with the Free Cities for you, or take that which you need if they will not sell. I promise that –”

“ _Enough_ ,” Stark commanded, and Greyjoy stopped, stunning all, “I am not Robert Baratheon, to be appeased by fine words and empty promises. I am a Stark of Winterfell, a Stark of the _North_. And you, Balon Greyjoy, invaded the North, and sought to rule it. Your son invaded my home and took my brothers captive, mayhaps even killed them, and you yourself murdered my lady mother. So do not grovel before me, and beg my forgiveness, and expect to be helped up and patted on the back, and admonished, told not to offend my royal person again. You claim to follow the Old Way, so now you pay the iron price for your actions,” then, to the Blackfish, “take him below. The block awaits him on the morrow.”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

At this, Balon Greyjoy began to struggle, trying to wriggle free from the Blackfish’s iron grip, trying to get to Stark. Tyrion admired the effort, though he admired Robb Stark’s tone more. The Stark boy’s expression did not change from a grim scowl until the heavy door closed behind Greyjoy, and then he only looked tired.

_Too tired for a sixteen year old boy_ , Tyrion thought.

Stark sat down heavily, and picked up the sheet of paper Galbart Glover had brought in. He read it through, and tossed it down, before looking up at Glover.

“Is that all of them?”

“Aye, my King,” Glover replied, “The signatures of every Ironborn lord, save Greyjoy himself, Codd, Wynch and Ironmaker. All accept your rule, should you choose to take it.”

Stark chewed that over, and Tyrion studied him carefully, wondering what the boy would do. He looked once again at the paper, around at the council, then at Rodrik the Reader, who had turned very pale upon seeing his liege lord being pulled from the room like a child throwing a tantrum. Finally, Stark’s azure gaze settled on Tyrion, who raised a blond eyebrow, before shaking his head.

_The Ironborn are no subjects_ , Tyrion realised, _and they will never be ruled by the North, just as the North will never be ruled by them._

After another moment of silence, Stark stood, and spoke quietly to his squire, the Frey boy. The boy – Olyvar, Tyrion thought it was – left the room, and a moment of silence descended over the council. A few moments later, Olyvar Frey returned, followed by a long-legged plain-looking young woman, who Tyrion realised was Asha Greyjoy.

“Asha Greyjoy,” Robb Stark intoned with an iron voice, “Your father will face his execution on the morrow. What do you intend to do?”

“The Ironborn need a new ruler,” Asha replied coldly, “And I don’t think my brother is particularly well-qualified to rule. I suspect there’ll be a choosing sooner or later to decide the next lord of these Islands.”

“No.”

All turned to look at Stark, his fist still curled around the parchment declaring his kingship over the Iron Islands. He picked it up, and scrunched it up into a little ball, before tossing it towards the fire. Stark then turned to Asha Greyjoy.

“The Ironborn want to be free, yes?” Robb Stark asked, and Asha Greyjoy nodded, “As do the Northmen. It would not… it would not be _honourable_ , nor would it be proper for me to deny you your freedom whilst championing my own.”

Asha Greyjoy smirked, “I suppose you’ll let us choose a _king_ , then, Your Grace?”

“Aye, but there will be terms,” Stark told her, “I expect that you will succeed to the throne?”

“I am the best choice.”

“Then I will make a treaty with you. Firstly, the North, and all the domains under my or my descendants’ rule, will be free from reaving until the end of time.”

“That’s our way of life!” Greyjoy frowned.

“Not anymore,” Stark answered coldly, “Not unless you want us back. Secondly, you will let me bring Theon Turncloak to justice, though I swear to send you his remains to give a proper burial here on Pyke.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“And each major Ironborn House will send wards to Houses in my realm.”

Greyjoy raised an eyebrow, “As hostages.”

Tyrion spoke up, “As honoured guests, more like. To ensure goodwill between the Houses of the North, and the Houses of the Iron Isles.”

After thinking for a moment, Greyjoy spoke sardonically, “I don’t suppose I have much choice in this treaty?”

Stark shook his head, and Greyjoy nodded, her smoky eyes flickering across the room. She left then, with Rodrik Harlaw, and the council went into uproar.

“You green boy!” Rickard Karstark bellowed, “We ask for vengeance, you give them a queen! What is the meaning of this?”

Galbart Glover’s face purpled, “Justice for Torrhen’s Square! Justice for Deepwood Motte! Justice for the North!”

“Robb, see reason,” Edmure Tully implored, “The Ironborn are not to be trusted!”

“ _ENOUGH!_ ” Robb Stark’s voice rose over them all, and the council gradually quieted, “I. AM. YOUR. KING! If we razed the Iron Islands, what message would that send? What kind of king murders innocents and butchers an entire realm?”

Lord Karstark’s face was twisted into a snarl, “Your father would never –”

“My father taught me the meaning of _justice_ , Lord Karstark,” the King cut the older man off, “He taught me that sometimes it is better to help your enemies up instead of crushing them beneath your heel. I would remind you of your place as well, _my lord_.”

Lord Karstark lapsed into silence, and Stark glared around the table, as if daring the others to follow the lord’s outburst. After that, there were some small matters of state to discuss, before Stark bade them all return to their homes, to gather the harvest before winter came. After that, they were dismissed, and Tyrion left the room with Ser Forley Prester and Lord Quenten Banefort. It seemed that the war was, at long last, over, save for the small matter of capturing Theon Greyjoy. Tyrion looked forward to returning to the Rock, and never leaving it, save to visit a brothel in Lannisport every once in a while.

Yes, everything was going to be just fine from now on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	28. The Kraken's Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the Young Wolf's victory, the Last Kraken and the Reading Lord discuss their options

THE KRAKEN’S DAUGHTER

She stepped from the great hall at Pyke into the evening gloom. Around her, Asha could see Stark men with Stark blades making quick repairs to Stark ships. It sickened her to her stomach to see the direwolf banner flapping proudly from ships which had come to Pyke bringing steel and death. It brought to her mind images of another battle, more than a decade ago, where the direwolf banner had flapped alongside the crowned stag, and Asha’s own brothers had fallen, instead of just her father’s men.

_My men now._

_At least, if they will follow me, that is_.

Rodrik Harlaw puffed along beside her, little colour in his drawn face, the silver in his hair standing out more than ever now. Rodrik the Reader, Rodrik the Traitor, Rodrik the Foresworn. All these monikers whizzed around her head, and Asha’s skin crawled to walk alongside the man who had turned his coat and given ships and men to the Stark cause, almost as much as it sickened her to have knelt before the Stark boy.

Oblivious of the turmoil within his niece, Lord Rodrik spoke unsurely, “Where to now, niece?”

 _Do not look to me_ , Asha thought bitterly, _I have betrayed my family, my homeland more than you ever could, you simpering bloody fool._

She did not dare speak to this feeling, to the grief which threatened to swallow her whole, as an Ironborn lord, even one so soft and green as the Reader, would desert her at the first sign of such feminine weakness. And Asha would not – _could_ not – show that weakness.

And so, she said; “Harlaw, my lord,” her voice sounded strange to her, strangled, imperious and scared all at the same time, “We must to Harlaw, to gather support for my claim to the Seastone Chair.”

“Are you sure that is wise, Asha?” Lord Rodrik asked, ever the voice of caution, “No woman has ever sat the Seastone Chair before, and your own brother could still return –”

Asha turned to him with a fierceness she didn’t quite know she still had, “My brothers are dead, killed by Robert Baratheon on these very shores. That fool who took Winterfell is no kin of mine.”

If Lord Rodrik was perturbed by her outburst, he didn’t show it, “Very well, Your Grace, but there will be others who seek the crown. Your lord uncle, Victarion, mayhaps, or even some lesser lord will want to claim mastery of our people.”

Asha quirked an eyebrow, “Such as yourself, nuncle?”

Lord Rodrik shook his head, and murmured some courtesy doubtless meant to assuage Asha’s conscience that he would serve her loyally and completely until the end of his days, something even a greenlander would vomit to hear.

 _I never suspected that you had dreams of kingship, my lord_ , Asha wanted to say, _I never suspected that you had the balls_.

Once again, Asha said nothing as they walked down to the harbour. The blood had spilled thickest here, though she had not seen it, where the Stark men had battled for every grain of sand beneath their feet. Asha hoped that no Ironborn warrior had yielded before being felled by a Northern blade. Such hope was likely futile she knew; most men gave ground for fear of bleeding. Most men were cravens.

“Are the dead numbered?” Asha found herself asking, whether she wanted to know the answer or not. If anyone was like to know, it would be the Reader.

“A great many, Your Grace,” Asha noted the royal style, “I do not believe they have all been counted yet. More of the dead are Northmen, tis true, yet many of our own lords have fallen.”

 _We always said that one of our warriors was worth ten from the mainland,_ “My father’s generals, I presume?”

“Aye,” the reply was short, “Lords Blacktyde and Saltcliffe fell, and Lord Wynch is unlikely to see the sunrise. I do not know how many others have been lost.”

“Your sorry skin was saved,” Asha blurted bitterly, before she could stop herself.

Lord Rodrik looked contrite, and even a little ashamed, “I am not shaped for war, Your Grace, and any defiance on my part would have done little to save you and your father from Robb Stark’s wrath.”

“You would have slowed them, surely,” Asha growled, “and we would have been able to bring more men from the outer Islands, more ships to vex the Starks, more –”

“More men to die,” the Reader’s voice was suddenly harsh, a tone he had never taken with Asha before, “We could not have stopped the Stark forces, and you are a greater fool than I thought if you would say differently. If you would sit the Seastone Chair, bear the crown of your ancestors, rule the Iron Islands for a good length of time, you must think like a queen, not like a reaver. You must acknowledge that you cannot win every battle, and sending droves of men to die will inspire neither love nor loyalty in your subjects. We lost today, Asha, and we would lose again if we rose up again tomorrow, a thought you are very clearly entertaining.”

She glared, unwilling to admit what she knew; that he was utterly right, “What would you have me do then? Send Ironborn children to ward in mainland Houses, kneel and beg and scrape like a whipped dog, wait on my Stark masters like a servant? I am a Greyjoy of Pyke, a reaver and captain of a ship to boot, my lord of Harlaw. I will not be cowed, I will _never_ be cowed.”

A small smile flickered across the Reader’s face, “I never said you would be, Your Grace. But first, we must secure your rule. We must to Harlaw, and thence call a kingsmoot, to ensure the Isles are behind you, as they were once behind your father.”

They arrived on one of Lord Rodrik’s ships – likely named for a long-dead maester – and departed Pyke. Asha, who had donned a black cloak clasped by an iron kraken, stood at the bow of the ship, watching as her home faded into the horizon. Her stomach still roiled, but much of that was due to the frothing autumn sea, as opposed to the sickness of her own betrayal.

She remembered the last words her father had spoken to her, besides those he’d said as the pitiful, snivelling wretch who’d been dragged in chains before the Young Wolf and his generals.

They’d stood before the Seastone Chair, either side of the great table in the centre of the room. The sounds of battle penetrated the thick stone, and Asha had heard the death throes of hundreds of men, a sound which engendered little confidence in her. Balon Greyjoy had not seemed so perturbed.

“We will not fall,” his voice had rung out clear and cold as ever, nary a tremor to be heard, “The Stark pup will not defeat us. _You_ will not fail.”

Asha remembered how she’d made a fist and saluted her father at his words. Girded for battle, none could accuse her of cowardice, not then, not ever. They had been alone, and so Father had shown one of his rare moments of softness, the ones reserved just for her. He’d given a small smile, and maybe there’d been a glimmer of pride behind those hard, flinty eyes.

“Rally the remaining troops,” he’d ordered, “Get out there and be a warrior to sing of. And if you meet Stark in battle…” the words had hung in the air for a moment, “Cut him down as his father cut down your brothers. Make him pay the iron price for his conquest.”

“I will, Father,” Asha had promised, kneeling, “What is dead may never die.”

“But rises again, harder, stronger. Go now, Asha. Go and be the warrior your brothers never could.”

Asha had gone, and Asha had fought, and Asha had lost. It was only now, on the rocking and frothing sea, that Asha realised that her father had fully expected her to die in defence of the – of _his_ – Iron Islands, just as her brothers had. And Asha knew deep down that she had expected that of herself, and wondered just how much it must have hurt him to see her standing by the Young Wolf’s side, shamed and defeated, yet still living. And Asha Greyjoy began to weep.

It was some hours before Lord Rodrik came to the bow of the ship to see her. He still wore his sable mantle and an expression of concern, though for the girl she had been, for the reaver she was or for the queen she was becoming, Asha could not say.

“We are coming up to Harlaw now, Your Grace,” Lord Rodrik said quietly, “Will you sup tonight?”

Asha’s stomach may have been churning, but its rumble belied any attempts on her part to deny her hunger, “Aye, a little. We must move quickly though.”

Lord Rodrik nodded, “We will. Have you taken my advice to heart, Your Grace?”

“That and more, my lord,” Asha answered. She paused to take a breath, full aware of the enormity of what she was about to confide in him, “This choosing must not last. As the Starks always say, winter is coming, and we must make ready.”

“We’ll see to it that the Islands are prepared for a harsh winter, Your Grace,” Lord Rodrik assured her, “Mayhaps we can buy grain from the riverlords or westermen.”

“And iron,” Asha continued, “Lots of iron.”

“Iron, Your Grace? Why –”

“Because I do not intend to chafe forever under fear of Stark rule, my lord,” Asha’s words, though rehearsed, surprised her in their harshness, “You yourself said that we would fall again if we rose tomorrow, and thus we will wait, bide our time and prepare quietly, secretly. As the Valyrians of old said, ‘All men must die.’ No matter what the Northmen say, Robb Stark is a man, just like any other. He will die, and we will rise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting  
> On another note, sorry for not updating a little sooner, I've been in Ireland for the past few weeks, and only just had time to write this chapter. Thanks, and bye!


	29. Robb VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Young Wolf enjoys a reprieve from his wars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the mature theme of this chapter, reader discretion is advised

ROBB

As Robb’s host travelled further inland, the greater its dispersal became. It seemed that they came across another holdfast nearly every day, where a few dozen men would break off and return to their homes. Every once in a while, Robb would see this lord or that knight ride off away from the column, back to his home. Lord Tyrion Lannister had taken many of his Westermen with him, along with their navy, as soon as they left the Iron Islands, sailing to Lannisport whilst Robb made for Seagard. Somehow, he found himself missing the Imp’s company, and the council tent seemed dim without his keen wit and barbed comments.

They had been riding for the Twins for near a month now, and the cold was beginning to come in. He’d had a raven from Winterfell, informing him of its liberation by Ser Rodrik, and also of Bran and Rickon’s good health. The thought of seeing his little brothers again only made him all the more impatient to get to the Crossing before the snows came.

They arrived at half strength, with almost all of the riverlords – save Lord Edmure Tully and the Frey levies – having left them. Ser Brynden had also chosen to stay, and said he would join Robb on the journey north, still wanting to steer clear of Riverrun. Robb had accepted, of course. The Blackfish was a good man, and an excellent councillor, and Robb hoped to give the man a permanent seat on his new council.

Such things would have to wait, of course, until after the wedding. Lord Walder greeted them from his great hall, as the old man was far too gouty to move towards them. Robb discovered that his mother hadn’t been wrong when she told him about the man’s discourtesy, as Lord Walder offered few greetings save a grumble about Robb taking too long with his war.

Nevertheless, Lord Walder kept his word, and asked which daughter Robb would be marrying. Robb merely smiled softly at that question, before answering as solemnly as he could.

“I would marry whichever daughter of yours would make the finest consort for a King in the North,” Robb replied, “Gentle and sweet, fair and maidenly if it is possible too.”

Lord Walder raised a snowy eyebrow, “Fair _and_ sweet you say? Maidenly too?” he grinned lecherously, before cackling at one of his brood, “That rules out your Ami, eh Merret?”

The room erupted with raucous laughter, and Robb frowned, slightly confused. Lord Walder and his family calmed after a few moments, before he called, in a surprisingly soft voice, “Roslin dear, the King wishes to see you.”

A side door opened, and a young woman about Robb’s age came out, wearing a silk dress and woollen mantle. Her hair was long and braided, and brown as oakwood. Her eyes were big and round, and they glanced furtively at the room full of Freys and Northmen. She started at Robb, before kneeling courteously, and Robb smiled despite himself.

_It seems Lord Walder’s manners were not passed down._

_Thank the gods for that._

“My King,” Roslin’s voice was soft as goose down, and barely carried, even though Robb was only a few feet away, “I am yours to command.”

“And I am yours,” Robb replied, as softly as he could, awkwardly aware of his towering over her, “From this day until my last day.”

They were married that same day, on the bridge that lay between the Twins. A septon came bumbling down from one of the towers, and Robb was only half-joking when he asked if this was another Frey. They said the words, and held each other’s hands, and when Robb bent down to kiss her the entire castle erupted into cheers, and chants of “The King in the North!!!”

They broke apart, and Robb smiled breathlessly at his new bride, who was herself flushed. He slid his arm into hers, and walked into the great hall once again, where Lord Walder had prepared a fantastic feast, fit for a king indeed. A dozen courses were served, each more delicious than the last; roasted geese, turkeys and rare, bloody steaks shared plates with fat, fluffy potatoes and every kind of steamed vegetable. The food flowed so bountifully it made Robb forget that winter was coming on in full strength.

He tried to make polite conversation with his new wife, though he found the courtesies almost as hard as battling Asha Greyjoy below the walls of Pyke. Roslin herself was very courteous, always addressing him as “my King,” or “Your Grace”.

After a while of that, Robb said: “You can call me Robb, you know.”

Roslin blushed, “I – I apologise Y – I mean, Robb.”

Robb felt a small smile grow across his face, “That’s alright. May I call you Roslin?”

“You are the King,” she replied, smiling a little herself, “You may call me what you like _Robb_.”

Later, Lord Walder made a speech, thanking the gods for an end to the so-called War of Five Kings, and praised Robb for his victories on the field of battle. He then announced that it was getting late, and the feast was dragging on.

“Bollocks!” roared the Greatjon, to the delight of all. He was clearly very drunk, “Y’call this a feast? I’ve had pisses with more beer! Bring more, bring more!”

Lord Walder’s face darkened, but none took notice. And so the feast carried on, long into the night. Music from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms was played by a band somewhere in the eaves, and soon the tables were cleared for dancing. Robb held out a hand to Roslin, who took it tentatively. Lord Walder motioned to the singers, who took up a slow, beautiful tune, and Robb and Roslin danced alone across the floor.

He noticed for the first time that she had freckles, dotted across her nose like stars in the night sky. At first, Robb worried that she would notice him staring, but when he caught her eye, she seemed to be staring at _him_ , which only served to make them both laugh. Their dance was slow and calm, and Robb felt the rest of the room fade away, until it seemed that it was only him and Roslin and the music. Roslin’s movements were very dainty, almost feather-light, and she guided Robb around the floor just as much as he did her, though he was not a bad dancer, now he thought of it.

The song ended, and Robb kissed his new bride, smiling down at her again.

“You should put your sword down, Stark,” cackled the Greatjon, “Dancing suits you!”

Roslin started to blush, and only turned red all the faster when Robb ignored the jape and kissed her again.

When their lips broke apart, Robb kept his forehead pressed against Roslin’s own. Her deep-brown eyes flickered from side to side nervously.

“Robb,” she whispered, “Your bannermen are staring at us.”

“Let them stare,” Robb replied, kissing her again, “It’s the last they’ll see of us tonight.”

“What do you…?” Roslin trailed off, before making an ‘O’ shape with her mouth. She blushed, and Robb heard a roar of laughter from the Greatjon.

“From the way you’re wife’s blushing, the singers’ll call this a red wedding!” he cackled, many others joining in.

Even Robb laughed, though he stopped when he noticed Roslin blushing even more. He looked over the top of her head, and addressing the crowd.

“The Queen is tired,” he announced, putting as much power and authority into his voice as he could, “and would to bed. I’m sure Lord Walder will continue to play a gracious host even after mine and my wife’s departure.”

Lord Walder nodded slowly, a sly look in his beady eyes. However, another member of House Frey, with wiry hair and a dark beard spoke up, “What about the bedding ceremony?”

“Why? Do you want to see another of your cousins’ tits, Black Walder?” Lord Edmure joked, to raucous laughter, “Let them go to bed. It’s probably some sort of crime to watch a King at his business.”

Robb ignored the fresh chatter that began after that statement, instead putting an arm around Roslin’s shoulders, and guiding her from the hall, to his temporary chambers. As they ascended the stairs, Robb became very conscious of how quiet Roslin had become since Black Walder’s outburst. A red tinge was back in her cheeks, and she looked at the floor as they walked.

Robb had heard Black Walder’s reputation of bedding his brothers’ wives, as well as his cousins and other not-so-close relatives. Anyone who rode with Freys in their army would hear rumours of the actions of this bastard or that son, but none came to Robb so frequently as the tales of Black Walder’s promiscuity. He looked down at Roslin, then back to their path, and then to Roslin’s downcast face again.

“I have heard tales,” Robb began cautiously, “of Ser Walder’s –”

“Those tales are true, Robb,” Roslin told him, her voice small, “But my nephew has only bedded my older siblings and cousins. I think he fears the wrath of my brothers, and now he will fear the wrath of a king. My virtue is still mine own, do not worry.”

They spoke no more, until they reached Robb’s bedchamber. It was smaller than one he would have given to a noble guest at Winterfell, and far more sparsely decorated than his chambers in King’s Landing were. But, Walder Frey was not known for his generosity, nor was he fabled as a host, and so Robb would not complain. They would leave on the morrow anyway; he need only use this bed for a few hours.

He opened the door, and allowed Roslin to step in, before closing it softly behind him. Roslin stared at the bed, eyes wide, before Robb sat down on the edge of the bed, looking up at her.

“On my honour as a Stark,” Robb said, “I will do nothing which you do not want.”

“But your honour as a king commands you to produce an heir,” Roslin told him, her voice oddly strong compared to earlier, “And my duty as a queen is to provide that heir. I am your queen, Robb, and your wife. Our personal honour and our wants do not come into it,” her face flushed suddenly, and she added, somewhat more sheepishly, “and I think that you are very fair.”

Robb laughed, and stood up, shaking off his boots as he did so. He walked up to Roslin, who gazed up at him with her wide, wide eyes.

“And I too think that you are fair, Roslin.”

With that, he kissed her, but this kiss was harder, fiercer, and soon Robb found that Roslin’s tongue was in his mouth, and his tongue was in hers. Her small hands were pressed against his chest, and began frantically scrabbling at the laces of his jerkin. Robb busied himself with the intricate knots covering the back of Roslin’s dress, and frowned through the kiss at just how fiddly they were. Roslin gasped a breathy laugh, and moved her own hands to help him.

The top half of the dress came away, and Robb kissed her again, her mouth hot and wet against his own. His hands touched her bare back for the first time, and a shiver shook Roslin’s body. He pulled away, frowning down at her.

“Are you alright?”

She stammered, flushing again, “I’m sorry, just a little cold.”

Robb laughed, and led her over to the bed, shrugging off his jerkin and undershirt as he did so. Roslin pulled off the rest of her dress and smallclothes, before clambering beneath the sheets. Robb followed, and looked deep into Roslin’s soft brown eyes. They kissed again, and Robb rolled on top of her, using his arms to hold himself above her thin body.

“Ready?” he murmured, and Roslin mumbled her assent, her hands tangling in his dark hair.

He pushed into her, and Roslin gasped in surprise. He looked at her, and she nodded, silently giving him the permission he needed to continue. Roslin dug her fingers into his back as he began to thrust harder, the pain fading in comparison the bliss he felt inside her.

As their pleasure grew, their hands began to roam across each other’s bodies. Robb felt Roslin’s small and delicate fingers move across his back, touching and stroking each and every ridge and scar he’d won in the past year or so. Each touch sent a thrill down his spine, gooseflesh rippling at her every caress. In return, Robb’s fingers danced up Roslin’s pale, thin body, her skin smooth to the touch, and warming every second, in part due to the thick furs about them, but also the rush of blood at each stroke of his hands.

Robb moved from Roslin’s mouth to kiss at her slender neck, feeling the groans grow within her throat and erupt from her mouth. They began to move faster into each other, the pleasure growing with every passing moment. Robb cried out as he climaxed, his arse clenching with the sensation of his peak.

He slid out of Roslin, his manhood already softening. She looked at him, red faced and as naked as the day she was born, with a wicked grin on her face.

“What?” he asked, more than a little concerned by the grin.

“I haven’t finished yet,” she smirked, “Out there, you’re a king, but in here you’re _mine_ , Robb Stark.”

It was Robb’s turn to blush, “I – uh – I’m not quite sure –”

“I’ll help you,” Roslin supplied, before adding, “I don’t know why you’re so shocked, Robb. I have six trueborn sisters and dozens of baseborn ones. Is it really a surprise to you that I understand the intricacies of the woman’s body?”

“I – er – no, sorry – um,” Robb stammered, and she laughed.

“Just do as I say.”

Robb nodded, and Roslin guided his fingers within her entrance, helping him to find the areas that stimulated her most. After but a few minutes, she was writhing at his touch, something that Robb marvelled at. He’d seen the power of fear to move someone, or the power of pain or anger, but it had never occurred to him that pleasure could do the same.

When Roslin at last reached her climax, Robb moved back up her body to press another kiss on her rosy pink lips. No more words were said after, as they drifted into their first sleep as a king and his queen. No more words were needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	30. Sansa IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Little Bird comes to Highgarden

SANSA

Even though autumn had begun everywhere else in Westeros, the Reach still bloomed as though in full summer. Hundreds of miles of warm green pastures spread out all around her, with the blue, blue waters of the Mander lazily snaking their way past Bitterbridge, Cider Hall and Highgarden, before flowing into the Sunset Sea at Oldtown. Golden sunflowers and ruby roses dotted the landscape like a carpet of beautiful colour, stretching as far as the eye could see, and likely further too.

It was the most beautiful place Sansa Stark had ever set her eyes upon.

She rode in the wheelhouse most often, though she tried to get out and ride whenever she could. Yes, there were sweet delights such as fresh lemon cakes and sugared foods from the Summer Islands in the wheelhouse, as well as the irresistible company of Margaery and her grandmother, but neither compared to the beauty of the open country. The Reach had been untouched by war, unlike the Riverlands Sansa’s mother called home.

Several hours ago, a great castle had risen up on the horizon, and now they were riding up ever closer to it. The walls were made of a beautiful white stone, the walls high and pale and pure as pearls. Now that they were closer, Sansa could see the green-and-gold rose banners of House Tyrell on the battlements, and on the shields of the guardsmen either side of the huge portcullis.

Highgarden sat beside the banks of the mighty Mander like a pure white sentinel, a picture almost true enough to wash the images of false knights and cowardly kings from her mind, though she frowned that away. She had to be on her guard once she arrived in Highgarden, just as she’d been all the way from King’s Landing.

The procession entered the courtyard, introduced by a fanfare of trumpets that rang around the yard. Sansa rode in beside the wheelhouse, and stayed atop her horse, waiting to be presented. An unbidden shiver ran down her spine, and her tummy twisted into knots, so Sansa took a deep breath, allowing herself to relax. This was a courtly procedure. She knew how to do those. She could do this.

Another fanfare, and three figures walked out of the thick oak doors of the great keep. One was a tall, handsome knight, as fair of face as the Knight of Flowers, though he was slightly taller, Sansa thought, and he wore a well-kept beard. To the right walked an immensely fat man, who wore enough green silk to make a dozen flags, though he wore a smile that was larger than his bloated belly, a smile large enough to lift even the dullest of spirits. In the centre stood a tall, thin man who leaned heavily on a carved wooden cane. He was young, despite the hobble, and he smiled despite the obvious pain walking gave him.

Ahead of Sansa, Lord Mace Tyrell dismounted, and embraced the three men, greeting each one warmly and shaking each hand firmly. Next came Margaery and Lady Olenna; Margaery wore a gown of fine gold silk, so that she seemed to glow in the midday sun. Lady Olenna griped at her son, but greeted the two younger men with the same grouchy warmth that she used with her granddaughter.

Then, the man beside her rode forward. He was as fat as older man in front of her, and he wore the merman of House Manderly on his breast. This was Ser Wendel Manderly, one of Robb’s own personal guard and captain of the score of men he’d commanded look after her in Highgarden. House Manderly originated in the Reach, and Robb thought that he might serve as a good intermediary between the Houses Stark and Tyrell in future.

_Though he may have forgotten under what circumstances House Manderly left the Reach._

_My brother has a lot to learn…_

“My lords,” Ser Wendel said cordially, before nodding towards Lady Olenna, “and my ladies. My name is Ser Wendel, of House Manderly, I have the honour of representing Robb Stark, First of His Name, and King in the North, the Trident and the West.”

“Well met, Ser Wendel,” Lord Mace replied, “You are welcome at Highgarden.”

Ser Wendel continued, “Might I also present Princess Sansa, of House Stark, sister to my king?”

Sansa rode forward, taking her cue from the knight’s words. As she did, she became very aware that all eyes in the courtyard had settled upon her. She looked down at the Tyrell party, before nodding her head with a murmured, “My lords.”

“By the Seven…” the caned man muttered, before blinking, and recovering his wits, “I mean… welcome to Highgarden, Princess Sansa. I am Willas Tyrell, and this is my brother, Ser Garlan,” he indicated the bearded man, “and my great-uncle Garth,” the fat man bowed low, “You already know my sister Margaery and grandmother, I presume? And my father, Lord Mace Tyrell?”

“I know them well, Ser Willas.”

Willas Tyrell smiled softly, “I am no ser, Princess Sansa,” he said, not unkindly, “I am rather unsuited to knighthood, you see.”

Sansa dismounted, and walked forwards. Willas was taller than her, standing near enough to six foot. Had it not been for his leg, he had the look of a strong man, his clean shaven jaw square and sharp. His eyes were the same brown as Margaery’s, but they were piercing somehow, as if searching at Sansa’s very soul. There was a kindness to them too, and Sansa somehow knew that this was a man with a quick and easy smile, as though joy was hiding behind that handsome face, ready to burst forth at any moment.

“Uncle Garth,” Willas said suddenly, “Have Princess Sansa’s things taken to her new rooms. I expect she’ll want to unpack.”

“I’d much rather look around the castle first,” Sansa replied, before stopping herself. She was a guest here, and she should have spoken more demurely, “That is, if that’s alright with you, my lord.”

“Dear Sansa,” Margaery laughed, “This is your home now. You are welcome to look around. Grandmother and I can take her,” she turned to her brother, “We’ll see you at dinner, Willas.”

Willas nodded, though he left muttering about being treated properly by his little sister, along with Ser Garlan. Garth Tyrell, who Sansa had been informed was often called ‘the Gross’ was instructing Sansa’s guards on where to take her clothes and other things.

Margaery led Sansa out of the courtyard, but they were stopped by the puffing form of Lord Mace. He smiled down at Sansa through his salt-and-pepper beard, and she was suddenly given the impression of a mad uncle, something she’d never actually felt before.

“I would like a word with my good-daughter-to-be,” Lord Mace spoke kindly, but there was an urgency to his tone, “She will join you presently, Mother, Margaery.”

“Be quick about it Mace,” the Queen of Thorns snapped, “I should like to walk with her before dinner this evening.”

Once she and Margaery had departed, Lord Mace turned to Sansa. He looked pale, which Sansa thought odd, and weary though without much reason. She supposed it was likely due to his unceremonious departure from King’s Landing; a few short months ago, he would have been father to a queen and grandfather to a king. Now he would be neither. Stannis Baratheon, it seemed, was not a forgiving man.

“Are you well, Princess Sansa?” Lord Mace’s tone was kindly, and there was a twinkle in his warm brown eyes.

“Well enough, my lord,” Sansa answered him truthfully, “Will there be news from my brother? He wars against the Ironborn.”

“I’ll speak to the maester,” the Lord of Highgarden promised, “Though I’m sure King Robb will be successful. The ironmen are cravens, turncloaks and pirates, not men fit for war.”

Sansa nodded, though Lord Mace’s words were little comfort for her roiling stomach. Robb would first have to cross Ironman’s Bay, and the ironmen were at their most dangerous at sea. Sansa swallowed down her worry, and tried to enjoy the beauty around her once more.

“I pray that you are right, my lord,” Sansa said, “and I thank you for your hospitality.”

Lord Mace’s face widened into a beam of delight, “Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Princess, no trouble at all. Anything for the family,” there was a moment of silence, during which Lord Mace beamed at her, before saying, “Well, I suppose I’d better speak to my son about – er – how things are getting along. Margaery and Mother are just up the path, if you want to see them.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Tyrell left her practically skipping towards the keep, and Sansa let a smile rise to her own face. She’d seen a little of him during her time in King’s Landing, though this was the first time she’d ever spoken to him alone.

_What an odd fellow._

Margaery and Lady Olenna were waiting for her by an exquisitely carved fountain. Margaery looked radiant in the sunlight, though her usual smile had been replaced by a subtle frown, her thin eyebrows furrowed as she listened intently to her grandmother. She looked up, however, as Sansa approached, and smiled warmly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Lady Olenna turned, and smiled graciously at the young Northern girl.

“How are you my dear?” Lady Olenna asked warmly, “Pay no mind to my fool son, I assure you he’s quite harmless.”

“Lord Mace was merely offering me your House’s hospitality, my lady,” Sansa replied, though she was cut off by Lady Olenna raising a hand for silence.

“ _Grandmother_ , dear,” Sansa was told shortly, “I daresay the word might be strange on your tongue, but I’ll hear it from you anyway.”

“Grandmother, behave,” Margaery warned, but Lady Olenna paid her no mind.

“Now you’ve been presented to my grandson, we’ll have to talk weddings. I think it’s best to get it over with quickly, whilst the days are long and the sun is hot, wouldn’t you say, my dear?”

Sansa blushed, “So soon? I – er – I wouldn’t know. I’ve never planned a wedding, you see.”

“Of course you haven’t, I wouldn’t have expected you to,” Lady Olenna’s voice was soft, belying her strong words, “How do you find Willas, by the by?”

“Willas was…” and here Sansa found that she had to hesitate.

Willas Tyrell had seemed nice enough, and certainly more courteous than any had been in a long while – save of course the Northmen Robb had brought with him – but Sansa was still unsure. Once before there had been one who was courteous to her, and sweet and charming. But that charm had become cruelty the moment he had come to power. Sansa had vowed to never again fall to charms like Joff’s. _Never_.

But, here was Willas Tyrell, a man who seemed charming and handsome in equal measure, even more so if Margaery was to be believed. But Sansa was no fool. Not any longer. No one was to be believed. This was the game of thrones, and she was sister to one of its most powerful players, making her either an important piece, or a player in her own right. If she married Willas, she’d join two of Westeros’ most powerful Houses in an alliance. On their own, the Tyrells could march to King’s Landing and tear Stannis Baratheon down. What more could they do with the Starks by their side? Sansa trembled to think on that.

But she could decide, she suddenly realised. Willas would be her husband, just as much as she would be his wife. Sansa’s father often came to Mother for advice on matters of diplomacy, especially to do with the relations between the Houses of the North. Besides, Willas needed Sansa; he needed her for an heir, he needed her to ensure support from the North, should he ever need it. She didn’t need Willas.

“Willas was as courteous as you say, Margaery,” Sansa finally responded, allowing a smile to grow across her face, “A true nobleman, I am sure.”

“And fair too?” Lady Olenna probed, “Looking past his gods-be-damned leg, of course?”

“My own brother is crippled,” Sansa replied sharply, “Yet he will one day become a fine lord with his own name and title. Many great lords have grown from such beginnings, my lady.”

The Queen of Thorns’ face broke into a small smile of admiration, “Well said, my dear. I wondered if there was a fire within you, and it seems I was right. You’ll do very well,” at that, she stood, and gestured down the path, “I must get back to the castle. Margaery will take you around the gardens. They really are superb in the autumn. The dahlia seems to be coming out. How lovely.”

She tottered off back towards the great castle, already calling snappishly for servants to come and help her. Sansa smiled, realising just how different life at Highgarden would be to life in Winterfell. She felt a pang then, for the days she’d never get back, for the days that were forever lost to her; of Bran climbing the outer walls, of Robb, Jon and Theon sparring in the courtyard, of Arya coming late to needlework with her knee bloodied and her face grinning. Sansa would never again see her mother and father holding each other by the fireside, though she wondered if she’d ever love Willas in the same way that Catelyn Tully had loved Ned Stark.

Margaery smiled, “I’m so happy to see you here, Sansa,” she said, and Sansa believed she meant it, “You’ll truly love Highgarden.”

“I hope I can,” Sansa replied softly, “I was just thinking of Winterfell. It’s… been a very long time since I was there.”

“I’m sure you’ll be allowed to visit,” Margaery told her sympathetically, nodding as she did so, “Once the wedding is done and King Robb has returned from his wars.”

“Maybe I’ll have a little niece or nephew by then.” Sansa wondered aloud, and Margaery laughed.

“Or maybe you’ll have a little son or daughter.”

_A son or daughter of my own_ , Sansa realised the truth in those words. Willas would need an heir just as much as Robb would. Her tummy did a flip when she realised that she would have to provide that heir. Margaery must have noticed the worry on her face, as she added quickly:

“I’m jesting, Sansa. You won’t have to if you don’t want to. Willas would never _dare_ force you.”

Sansa frowned, worry once again expanding in her chest like a horrid ball of emotion, “How do you know?”

Margaery smiled, “Because he’ll have me to deal with.”

Sansa laughed at that, and the two girls walked arm-in-arm through the gardens, Margaery showing her which flowers were due to come out next, and which were already in full bloom, until they were called into dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	31. Robb VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Young Wolf reaches his Den

ROBB

As the column rode even further north, the snows began to deepen. By the time they reached the Barrowlands, they were encountering snowdrifts near ten feet deep. Messengers came almost every day, warning of great winter storms to the North.

Robb drove his men hard through the final stretch of their journey, desperate to reach Winterfell before the weather worsened too much. Part of him wanted to get home as soon as possible, but he also knew that many in his remaining host could not take much more of this weather. Roslin in particular, was not doing well.

_She’ll cope_ , Robb told himself, _she’s stronger than she knows._

Finally, after weeks of marching through the snowy landscape of the North, the great and ancient castle of Winterfell appeared on the horizon, and inched closer with every hour of riding.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Robb murmured when they rode through the gates at the end of their journey.

Beside him, the Greatjon chuckled, and then they were back inside the castle walls. Winterfell looked different, somehow, much smaller than he remembered. The grey walls were nowhere near as splendid or rich as the Red Keep, but they were more… _homely_. Robb smiled, allowing the warm sensation of home to fill his body, before turning to the great keep.

Bran sat outside in his wheeled chair, his thin body bundled up into a thick cloak. Hodor stood beside him, with Rickon, and two others Robb didn’t recognise, alongside Ser Rodrik Cassel and the small, thin form of Lord Howland Reed. Robb cantered into the centre of the yard, and the assembled Northmen knelt before their king.

Robb dismounted, and strode towards Bran, who had bowed his head, his legs still failing him. His brother looked different, his burnt red hair longer and darker now, his face older, more solemn. He smiled to see Robb, however, and the rest of the castle rose when Bran looked up.

“You should come inside,” Bran told him, “Maester Luwin says that a storm is coming down from the Wall. I’ve prepared Father’s chambers for you.”

“Thank you, Bran,” Robb spoke quietly, before turning to the Greatjon, “Have your men go to the barracks. I’ll get the kitchens to bring them out hot soup and some other food. They must be tired.”

The Greatjon nodded, and began giving orders to his men, as well as the Mormont, Karstark and hill-clansmen levies.

Lord Howland strode forward, a smile forming on his thin face, “Your Grace, I hope you are well?”

“Well enough, my lord,” Robb told him as they began walking inside, “I trust you and Lady Maege made it to Greywater Watch in good time?”

“We arrived a little after your proclamation of peace in the Seven Kingdoms,” Howland replied, “Separately, of course.”

“You have my thanks, Lord Howland.”

Robb went up the stairs to his new room, and opened the door slowly. It was as he remembered; the largest bedroom in Winterfell, as luxurious as could be expected from a lord’s room, though he knew it would always be _Father’s_ room, never his. Robb remembered being a child, and coming to this bed after a nightmare had woken him in the night, and climbing in beside the sleeping forms of his parents.

But Eddard and Catelyn Stark would never be here again.

“Robb?” a soft voice called to him from the doorway, “Robb, are you in there?”

He turned, a smile on his face, “Yes, Ros, I’m here.”

Roslin entered, bundled up in thick furs. Robb had given her his warmest cloak once the weather had worsened past the Neck, and he smiled to see her face poking out almost comically from underneath the thick skins. Roslin looked red from the harsh winds, though her face lit up when she saw Robb. She walked in and embraced him, wrapping her arms around his middle.

“Is this your room?” she asked, “They told me to come here, I wasn’t sure…”

“It’s our room,” he told her, “But my old one’s just down the corridor. This… this used to be Father’s room. It’s a little strange, I’ll admit.”

“It will be,” she reassured him, “for a time, anyway.”

They stayed together for a while, enjoying each other’s embrace. They had spent almost every night together on the journey north, lying beneath piles of furs in Robb’s tent. He had found out, to his delight, that Roslin loved riding, and they would ride together for most of the day, even when Robb would ride with other Northern lords. She’d seemed a little shy at first, though had been charmed by many Northmen, primarily the Greatjon.

A soft knock on the door pulled them apart, and Robb answered, allowing Maester Luwin to enter the room. Luwin looked tired, his face even more lined than Robb remembered. He had a few scrolls in his hands, and he looked at Robb through heavily-lidded eyes.

“Your Grace,” he murmured, “I have these letters for you. From your father.”

Robb took the scroll, and looked at Luwin, swallowing to get rid of the lump in his throat, “From Father?”

“I also have ones for your siblings. Shall I find Princesses Sansa and Arya?”

“Sansa’s in the Reach,” Robb told him, “but send it by raven to Highgarden. Arya’s… give me Arya’s.”

Luwin nodded and obeyed, and bowed on his way out. Robb opened the scroll with trembling fingers, and began to read his father’s handwriting;

_My dear son,_

_If you are reading this, then you are the Lord of Winterfell, and I will have passed on. I pray only that I died with honour, and lived a life worthy of the Stark name. I charge you to do the same, my son, and also to look after your remaining family. Your brothers and sisters will need guidance, Robb. They will need your help._

_The Starks will endure, but only as a pack._

_Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

Robb held the paper for a few moments, before the tears began to flow more freely. Roslin held him, and he allowed the tears to soak into her cloak. He realised that these were the last words he’d ever hear from his father. Lord Eddard Stark was gone.

Roslin pulled away for a moment, and Robb looked into her deep brown eyes, wiping his face. She gave him a strange look, before saying: “I think I have something that’ll cheer you up.”

Robb frowned, “What?”

She smiled, and guided his hand to her belly, “Robb… I’m pregnant.”

_Pregnant?_

It took Robb a few moments for her words to register in his mind, and a few seconds more to realise what they meant. His face split into a grin, and he hugged Roslin again, holding her tight, before letting her go, not wanting to hurt the baby.

“Are… are you sure?”

“I think so,” she answered, “I’ve – er – I’ve missed my bleeding, but I can’t be certain.”

“This,” Robb whispered, breathless, “This is wonderful.”

“Just… just don’t tell anyone, just yet, please?” Roslin asked, “I don’t want it to _not_ be true, and everyone be disappointed in me.”

“Of course,” Robb replied, “That’s… that’s just fine.”

Later that evening, Robb dined with his family, introducing Roslin to Bran and Rickon, and letting Bran tell them everything that had happened since he left Winterfell; from Theon’s treachery, to them running away from Winterfell, to coming back and hiding in the crypts, to Ser Rodrik’s brave recapture of the castle. Roslin kindly told Bran that it sounded as though he had been very brave.

In turn, Robb told them about his war in the south, and how he had met Stannis Baratheon and defeated the Lannisters. He told them about Sansa, and then about the Battle of Pyke. Then, more uncertainly, he told Bran of his upcoming betrothal to Shireen Baratheon, ensuring the peace between Houses Baratheon and Stark for the foreseeable future. He also mentioned Oberyn Martell’s proposal, though it seemed more and more as though Arya would never be found, despite the Dornishman’s optimism.

The evening passed quietly, which Robb found strange. This was the first time in his reign as either Lord of Winterfell or King in the North in which he had stayed in his own home with his family at peace. It was a strange idea, though Robb found it a comforting one. He prayed that he would not have to go to war again for a long time.

That night, he and Roslin did not make love, instead holding each other as the darkness surrounded them. Then, the dreams came, and Robb found little comfort in them…

_He was outside the man-den which his master called home, reunited with his brothers at long last. The wild one was here, as well as the quiet one, the three of them together for the first time in years. They paced around the wood where they were kept by their masters, the wood with the great white tree in the centre._

_He smelled his master and his mate in their small den, high above him, as well as the broken boy, his strong mind probing at the edge of his own. The broken boy’s mind was in the quiet brother, and even he could feel the boy’s power._

_He whined, and put his head on his paws, allowing the ancient scent of the wood to fill his nostrils. His nose twitched with the sensation of smelling his master’s home, and he relaxed, knowing that he was safe at last._

_His brothers seemed less at peace. The wild brother, with his inky black fur and feral eyes, patrolled the wood, snapping and snarling at every shadow. The quiet brother seemed accustomed to this, but he was not. He snapped at the wild brother, but the black wolf paid him no mind. The quiet brother whined, and turned his golden eyes to the north._

_He did the same, and a strange scent filled his nostrils. It was the scent of… home. Not his master’s home, but_ his _home, the home that his mother had come down from all those moons ago to give birth, running from something. Something stirring in the dark and the cold. Something ancient. Something… terrifying._

_The smell of fear wasn’t what he smelled now, however. No, he smelled the scent of men, but these men smelled different to his master. They smelled wilder, harsher, more warlike. And they were coming closer._

_He could smell something else too, a smell he had known, once. The smell reminded himself of when he was a pup, nestled in his mother’s corpse without realising her fate. It was one of his siblings, but the scent was faint, hard to read. He keened as his master’s mind recalled something else about the far north. There was another brother there, his master’s solemn brother._

A sharp knocking on the door woke Robb from his slumber, and he wiped the sleep from his eyes. Beside him, Roslin was still asleep, though she stirred a little when he climbed out of bed. He opened the door, and frowned down at Maester Luwin.

“What is it?”

“Pardon, Your Grace,” Luwin’s voice was shaky, “But we have received a raven. From Castle Black.”

“Castle Black?”

Robb frowned. Jon was at Castle Black, he knew this, is that what the message was? Had Jon received the letter sent by Robb and Stannis from King’s Landing, all those months ago? If so, why was he only replying now?

“Let me see it, Luwin.”

Luwin held forth a scroll with trembling fingers, and Robb unfurled it, eyes widening in horror as he read.

_To all the Lords of Westeros,_

_I write from Castle Black with the utmost urgency. The Wall is under threat. The Lord Commander is dead, and an army of wildlings marches on the Wall. We need help if we are to repel this threat._

_Sincerely,_

_Ser Alliser Thorne_

Robb rolled the parchment back up, “Wake the Greatjon and the others. We ride as soon as we are ready.”

“Your Grace?”

“When the castle wakes, my brother will once again govern Winterfell in my stead,” Robb ordered, “We will not be long, but ensure the safety of my brothers and wife. I will leave Lord Reed here with five hundred men, to advise my brother.”

A small smile appeared on Luwin’s face, “It will be done, Your Grace.”

Robb dressed quickly and quietly, leaving a kiss on Roslin’s cheek before he left the room, buckling his sword belt. He walked swiftly through the corridors of Winterfell, and heard the men getting ready below.

As he was saddling his horse, Howland Reed entered the stables. He looked wide awake, and Robb wondered if the man ever slept.

“Would it not be wiser to wait until morning, Your Grace?”

“Jon needs my help,” Robb told him, “As do the rest of the Night’s Watch. I won’t sit here whilst wildling invaders attack my brother and my homeland.”

Howland nodded, and bowed, allowing Robb to ride past. He took his place at the head of the column, with the Greatjon on one side and Lord Karstark on the other. The Blackfish rode at the rear. They were only cavalry; they would be much faster and would be more able to cut through the wildling ranks.

They rode out of Winterfell and immediately turned north along the kingsroad. Robb estimated their number at two thousand, and prayed that they would be enough. He’d heard rumours about the King Beyond the Wall’s great army of one hundred thousand wildlings. Robb had no idea about the state of the Night’s Watch, but he was sure that Jon needed his help.

He had no idea why, though the strange dream could have had something to do with it. As Grey Wind came out of the castle, racing towards the front of the column faster than any of the horses, Robb gave him a funny look. It was almost as if…

It was probably nothing, and Robb focussed on the road ahead, willing his horse and the rest to go faster. His brother needed his help, and Robb intended to give it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	32. Jon II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The White Wolf defends his home

JON

Night had fallen on the Wall. And with the night, came the attack. But not from the north, as many in the Night’s Watch had feared. This attack came from the south.

Jon stood with Satin, the boy-whore from Oldtown, loosing arrows at the attacking wildlings as fast as he could, though for every wilding that fell to one of Jon’s arrows, three black brothers fell to wildling blades. Castle Black barely had enough men to fill the hall, yet half of those still here were atop the Wall, at the order of Janos Slynt and Bowen Marsh.

_Fools_ , Jon thought grimly, _we’re underprepared, and we’re going to pay for that with our lives._

He put all of his anger at the officers into his next arrow, and allowed satisfaction to bubble up in his stomach as a Thenn cried out in pain as an arrow sprouted from his side. He calmly nocked another arrow, and drew it back to his cheek.

_And another. And another._

The sounds of battle seemed to fade away with each arrow that Jon let loose, though perhaps it was just that there were fewer people fighting. Jon thought he saw a flash of flame hair more than once in the chaos below him, but it was gone when he next looked.

Jon reached down for another arrow, but when his fingers grasped at air, he smirked, dropping the bow, made his way to the door.

_Finally._

“Jon,” Satin’s voice came to him through the haze, “Jon?”

He turned, blinked, and focussed on the boy, “I’m going down now,” he said matter-of-factly, “When you run out of arrows, you can join us, or you can go and make sure you’re safe.”

Satin was silent for a moment, before he jerked his head and mumbled, “Good luck.”

Jon nodded at the younger boy, and made his way down to the courtyard, where the sounds of fighting and dying rose up to meet him. He shrugged off his cloak, and grasped Longclaw, before stepping out into battle.

The first man who came to him was huge and hairy, with a wild, wild beard and a dull bronze axe. Jon dodged his frantic swing and buried Longclaw in the man’s throat, dark blood spraying Jon’s front. The man collapsed, but Jon had little time to savour his victory. A dark-eyed Thenn ran at him, bronze sword flashing in the torches’ half-light. Jon squared his jaw, and met the Thenn blade for blade, Longclaw answering the shorter sword’s challenge easily.

The Thenn was good, but Jon was much, much better. He took the Thenn’s arm off at the elbow, before opening his stomach. Jon left him there, life’s blood leaking out onto the snow and flagstones.

Jon waded through the bloodshed and death to the great gate at the foot of the Wall. There, Donal Noye reigned supreme, a bloody hammer in his one good hand, a dead wildling at his feet. A black brother lay behind Noye, alive or dead.

“Snow!” Noye roared, “Snow, get your arse over here.”

Jon obeyed, and the man started bellowing commands, “Get up that winch, and tell those fuckers to come down and help us. There’s too fucking many of them. Oh,” he added, as Jon went to go, “and if Thorne, Marsh or Slynt try to stop you, toss ‘em over, got it?”

Jon smiled ruefully, “As you wish.”

“None o’ that, Snow,” Noye growled, though there was a twinkle in his eye, “On your way. I’ll make sure no wildling gets to you.”

Jon nodded, and made his way towards the great lift that the black brothers used to climb the Wall. He ascended gravely, and a dozen wildling arrows arced towards him, always falling just short of his cage. He wondered if any of them were Ygritte’s, and wondered again if she was alive.

As the cage reached the top of the Wall, he pushed Ygritte from his mind, and strode onto the Wall itself. The crenelated ice was lined with two dozen men, each with bows and flaming arrows. Jon came to Ser Alliser Thorne, who stood bellowing orders like a madman.

“Ser Alliser,” Jon said, but the knight ignored him, “Ser Alliser!”

“What _is_ it, Lord Snow?” Thorne snarled, “In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re holding off a wildling invasion up here.”

“Donal Noye requests that you send men down to aid in the fight below. He –”

“Can go shove a hammer up his arse,” Thorne snapped, “If it wasn’t for us, you’d have to fight wildlings coming down the Wall, got that?”

Jon nodded mutely, shocked by Ser Alliser’s anger. The man looked desperate, and scared too, beneath his bluster. That, Jon could understand. None of them knew how much longer they’d live, and survival was all that mattered right now.

“I’ll let him know.”

Jon turned to go, and strode back towards the cage. As he descended, he noticed that the shouts from below were quieting, the sounds of battle growing ever fainter, the moans of the dying fading with every passing moment.

He reached the bottom, and stepped out. Donal Noye stood with his back to Jon, his hammer still dripping blood. He turned, eyes blazing.

“Where in seven hells are they?”

Jon told him, and Noye’s eyes smouldered with rage.

“He’s lucky we aren’t losing down here,” he growled, “We’ve got them on the run, Snow. For tonight, at least,” he stepped in closer, “We’ve had no word from any southron House. It looks like we’re alone on this one.”

Jon shook his head, “Robb will come. I know it. Maybe Stannis Baratheon won’t, but my brother will come for us.”

“I hope you’re right, Snow,” Noye replied, clearly trying to maintain his gruff image, “For all our sakes.”

Jon nodded, striding off towards Castle Black’s southern gate. The ground was littered with several dozen bodies, black-cloaked brothers and furred wildlings alike. He tried not to look too closely, for fear he’d see someone he’d recognise from either side.

And then he saw.

A flash of copper in the dying flames. A small movement that was just enough to catch his wandering grey eyes.

Ygritte lay dying on the hard stone floor, an arrow having sprouted from her chest. Jon ran towards her, his fingers suddenly thick, his throat dry whilst his eyes began to grow wet. The arrow was black, and fletched with white duck feathers. Not one of Jon’s, but it may as well have been.

Her soft eyes opened, and a weak smile came, “Jon Snow. Am I in a proper castle now, not just a tower?”

Jon nodded, “Aye. A proper castle.”

Ygritte’s smile grew, “Good. I wanted to see a castle, just once, before I –”

“You’re not going to die,” Jon told her forcefully, “It’s just an arrow, Maester Aemon’ll draw it out, and you’ll be fine. The battle’s over, he’ll heal you, he will. You’re kissed by fire, remember? Kissed by fire. Lucky. I’ll get Aemon.”

He went to stand, but Ygritte’s soft touch on his arm stopped him.

“D’you remember that cave?” she asked, still smiling weakly, “We should have stayed in that cave. I told you, didn’t I?”

“We’ll go back,” Jon promised, “Just you and me, we’ll go back to that cave. You’re not going to die.”

She only smiled again, cupping his cheek with a hand that was cold, too cold, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

And then she died, with the words still on her lips, and Jon’s grief burst forth like a wave of cold and pain. His tears flowed then, tiny droplets spotting Ygritte’s face and freezing in the winter’s storm.

The next night, the wildlings came again. But they’d been routed to the south, and so Jon found himself atop the Wall with scores of archers to his left and right. Arrows raced each other down the icy cliff of the Wall, embedding themselves in the stocky bodies of wildlings, or else in the hides of the great giants and mammoths.

Donal Noye stood beside him, bellowing orders loud enough for Mance Rayder himself to hear. The blacksmith’s voice thrummed with power, and Jon was in awe of the man’s presence. He manned the Wall like a god of war, and not a man of the Watch considered fleeing that night.

Noye looked down, and saw a group of wildlings racing towards the gate. He squared his jaw, hefted his hammer, and strode back along the Wall.

“Wait,” Jon said, grabbing his arm, “Where are you going?”

“To hold the gate, lad,” Noye told him, “Someone has to. So long as we hold the gate, they cannot pass. You have the Wall until I return?”

“My lord?” Jon asked, incredulous.

“I’m no lord,” Noye spat, “I’m a blacksmith. I said, the Wall is yours.”

_But why?_ Jon wanted to ask, _there are better men, less-green men who ought to have the command._

Instead, he jerked his head, and Donal Noye went below with ten men. Jon turned to the men around him. He squared his shoulders, and raised an arm.

“ _NOCK!_ ” he roared, and scores of black brothers put arrow to bowstring.

“ _DRAW!_ ” he ordered, and near a hundred men drew a hundred bowstrings to near a hundred cheeks.

“ _LOOSE!!!_ ” he bellowed, and arrows went sailing into the dark, and, far below, Jon heard the screams of the wildlings the found.

To Jon, the rest of the night passed in a blur. He gave orders for the arrows to fly, and fly they did, into the dark and into the wildings below. He must have registered Noye’s success at the gate, for no wildlings ascended the Wall to kill him, but that notion didn’t come to him until much later. For Jon, there was only the arrows and the targets. After a few hours, he picked up a bow himself, though they were beginning to run short. He sent Satin and a few others down for more arrows, and more pitch to light the fires.

The golden rays of dawn were a welcome sight to the Night’s Watch, many of whom were likely close to losing fingers to the cold and strain of shooting arrows all night. And, with the dawn, came the retreat of Mance Rayder’s forces. One by one, the men put their bows down, and left the top of the Wall. The free folk retreated to the edge of the forest, just beyond the reach of Jon’s archers.

Eventually, Jon too took the great wire cage down the face of the Wall, and walked into the courtyard of Castle Black. He looked about him, suddenly concerned. He snared a passing black-brother.

“Where is Donal Noye?”

The brother looked at Jon, but turned away wordlessly, and gestured towards the gate. Jon followed the man’s outstretched hand, quickening as he entered the tunnel. What he found was horrifying. Donal Noye was there, but he would never again return to his furnace in the smithy. His spine had been crushed by a giant’s fist, though he had finished off the brute that did it; Noye’s sword was embedded in the giant’s throat, and the massive corpse seemed to block up the passage.

Later, after Ser Alliser had ordered the bodies removed and burned, Jon attended a meeting of brothers in the Shield Hall. They were so few now, and Jon wasn’t sure they’d survive another night. The loss of Donal Noye had hit the men hard, and several refused to even attend the meeting.

Many voiced suggestions as to what to do next. Ser Alliser and his cronies advocated sending out a man of the watch to kill Mance Rayder, in the hopes that, after the death of their king, the wildings would lose heart and disperse. Jon didn’t have much faith in this plan, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Attention was the last thing he needed right now.

However, it seemed stupidity would prevail, and Jon’s wish to be unnoticed would be ignored. Ser Alliser ended the meeting by asking for volunteers, and, since no black brother was brave – that is to say foolish – enough to want to wander into the wildling camp, kill Mance Rayder and then be killed himself, Alliser volunteered a man of his own choosing. A man who turned out to be Jon himself.

_Figures._

“You know the wildlings, Lord Snow,” Thorne sneered, “and they know you. If you’re lucky, they won’t serve traitors the same justice we do.”

Jon didn’t rise to the bait, instead nodding slowly. He pulled his cloak about his shoulders, fastened Longclaw to his back, and stepped towards the great tunnel through the Wall. A few brothers offered him luck, but he could not find it in himself to reply. He was a dead man walking, just as the wights in the cold lands were, he just hadn’t had the decency to properly die first.

The tunnel was cold, and the floor was still slick with blood, though that was freezing quickly enough. The old gate had been smashed off its hinges by the giant’s fist, and lay in a crumpled heap on the snow. Jon hoped they’d fix it soon enough. A hundred thousand wildlings flooding through the Wall would not be good for the defence of the realm.

He walked out of the tunnel, and his eyes were stabbed by the blinding whiteness of the snow. Fresh flakes had fallen, dulling the blood stains of the previous nights. The free folk had built funeral pyres for their dead, cutting back the haunted forest – and their own cover – in the process. Bodies were being heaped upon the flames, even as Jon walked through the wildling camp. Angry eyes watched his every move. He had never felt less sure of himself.

He reached the great tent in the middle, the one he knew Mance Rayder occupied. A guard waited without, and Jon told him that he had come to offer terms. A stupid lie, and one Mance Rayder would be foolish to believe. But Jon was allowed in anyway, right into the enemy’s jaws.

Mance and the other chieftains stood around a fire, talking. Jon recognised the stout and barrel-round figure of Tormund Giantsbane, the keen eyes and sharp features of Soren Shieldbreaker, the massive shape of the Great Walrus, and half a dozen others besides.

“Look Mance,” Tormund Giantsbane warned, “A crow comes hither.”

Mance Rayder turned, his eyes devoid of any warmth they once have carried for Jon, and the chieftains around him all wore similar expressions of distrust, anger and hatred.

_Just like a crow to turn against them,_ Jon thought ruefully, _they were right to mistrust me from the start._

Ygritte’s face swam up in his mind, and told him he knew nothing. He pushed the image away, and cleared his throat.

“I have been commanded to offer terms to Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall,” Jon began, “Terms of surrender for the army of the free folk.”

Tormund snorted, and Soren Shieldbreaker’s hand twitched for his axe, but Mance’s face remained neutral, empty. He spoke as Jon had never heard before; as a king, “We will not surrender, Jon Snow the crow. Who sent you out, bleating their words like a whipped dog? It’s not like the Old Bear to send a messenger, not when he can come himself.”

“Lord Commander Mormont is dead,” Jon almost choked, but he managed to keep his voice even, “And I speak for all the brothers of the Night’s Watch.”

That caused a reaction. Tormund thumped his fist on his knee, a curious expression on his face. The other chieftains looked pleased, and Mance stroked his beard in thought, “Jeor Mormont is dead. How curious. But that means Marsh sent you, like as not. No need to answer, crow,” he added, seeing Jon about to deny, “I know how you do things. And I’m sure you know that I have enough men to take the Wall by storm.”

“We’ve bled you dearly already,” Jon retorted, “And lost but a few of ours.” He was lying, of course. Thirty black brothers had fallen, and only sixty or seventy were in shape enough to fight.

Mance chuckled darkly, seeing the lie, “I have tens of thousands of warriors baying for crow blood,” he answered coldly, “You have half a hundred greybeards and green boys. It won’t take us long, and we’d lose a few more men, but we’d beat you eventually. What are you really doing here, Jon Snow?”

Jon opened his mouth, trying to come up with a half decent lie, a good excuse to get Mance alone, when they heard it. The last sound Jon – or any other in that tent – was expecting to hear.

_Ahooooooooo!_

The sound of the warhorn pierced the camp. Mance Rayder looked startled, and momentarily forgot about Jon. The chieftains stood, and Jon himself turned to look through the tent flap.

_Ahooooooooo!_

“Those aren’t ours,” Jon realised aloud.

“No, Jon Snow,” Mance Rayder murmured, “They’re mine.” He wheeled on his commanders, “Who had charge of the outriders?”

“Harma Dogshead,” Tormund replied swiftly, “She went scouting early this morning.”

“Looks like she found something.”

Mance, Jon and the chieftains stumbled out of the tent, seeing the wildling camp in chaos. Mothers and babes rushed to and fro, searching for shelter, whilst warriors picked up stone axes and cudgels. The warhorns seemed to be coming from the east, but Jon didn’t know who or what was attacking. At first, he thought it was the Others, and their army of wights, but then he saw the first banners.

_The direwolf runs beyond the Wall_.

The wildlings were in a complete panic, and Jon now knew why. He could see that the Stark forces were all mounted, hard Northern horses built for fighting in the snow. They cut a bloody swathe through the free folk, before Mance Rayder called out in a loud, clear voice:

“Throw down your spears! Throw down your axes. Submit, and live to fight another day.”

The call was echoed up and down the camp, and free folk began to lay their weapons down. The vanguard of the Northern forces arrived in front of Mance’s tent, headed by three men. First, a stocky youth with a fiery beard and a bronze sword-crown atop his brow, then a veritable giant with a huge, chipped greatsword, and lastly a black-cloaked man with drizzly grey hair. All three men vaulted off their horses, and came to stand before Mance Rayder. The crowned man saw Jon, and a flash of recognition glinted in his steely blue eyes.

“Mance Rayder,” he greeted coldly, “It seems we have your encampment surrounded. Now would probably be a good time to surrender.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	33. Arya III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hound and the Wolf in the cold...

ARYA

The snows were worsening again.

Arya glared at the Hound’s back on his horse as they trudged through ever-deepening snowdrifts. A storm was closing in, and she had no assurances, save the Hound’s word, that they were anywhere near Winterfell. Not that she could ask how close they were; the Hound would just “humph” or hit her again. So instead she tried something new.

“Storm’s getting worse.”

No reply.

“Maybe we should look for shelter.”

No reply.

Arya’s glare worsened, though the Hound couldn’t see it. He’d probably laugh, if he did. That thought made Arya’s mood even darker, and she shifted on her horse, Needle clinking at her side as she did. Finally, her patience broke, and she had to ask.

“How much further?”

“Fuck’s sake girl,” the Hound growled, “You ever get tired of asking questions?”

“Only when they get answered.”

He didn’t even shift on his horse, “We’ll get there when we get there.”

“That’s not an answer,” Arya told him, “That’s just you being annoying.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

The Hound didn’t answer, and Arya glowered at him, and sulked as they continued up the kingsroad. At least, she _hoped_ it was the kingsroad. She couldn’t be sure, and she had a sneaking suspicion that the Hound wasn’t either. They had been riding for months now, with no end in sight. He had promised to take her home, but she would have been content to return to Riverrun, where her uncle, Edmure, ruled over the Trident, before being sent home with guides who actually knew where they were going.

They bedded down on the edges of a forest, which could have been anywhere in Arya’s opinion, but seemed to be the Wolfswood according to the Hound. When she told him that the Wolfswood was north of Winterfell, he told her to shut up.

Arya lay on her back, and stared up at the sky, her mind racing, stopping her from being able to sleep. The cloud had broken, and Arya found herself looking up at the stars for the first time in weeks. The ice dragon stayed right in the centre of the sky, the brightest object besides the moon. She could make out the shapes that the stars made, and she was sure she had known their names, once. Maester Luwin must have taught her, or perhaps it had been Father. She couldn’t be sure, it felt like such a long time ago.

She pushed Father and Luwin from her mind, and murmured her prayer.

“Ser Gregor,” she whispered, “Dunsen. Raff the Sweetling. Amory Lorch. Ser Ilyn. King Joffrey. Queen Cersei.”

She rolled over, and the Hound grunted after a moment.

“You forgetting somebody, girl?”

Arya rolled back to face him, his ruined face barely a foot away from hers. There was something in his eyes, but Arya Stark hadn’t seen concern recently enough to recognise it in another. She opened her mouth to speak his name, to condemn him with her words, but the words caught in her throat.

_He killed Mycah_ , her mind screamed, _say his name! He deserves it!_

But another voice spoke up, one Arya heard very little from. It was small, and sounded very much like Mother, or perhaps Sansa; _But he saved you. He’s taking you home, surely he shouldn’t die_.

Arya’s lip trembled, and she whimpered the phrase Jaqen H’gar had taught her, all those months ago, her voice trembling midway through.

“ _Valar Morghulis_.”

She turned away from him then, ignoring his dark chuckle. He was going to hell anyway, she knew, when he died. He didn’t need her to send him there.

Arya did her best to hide her teas from the Hound, and didn’t look him in the eyes when they woke the next morning.

They set off riding again, and Arya allowed the dull motion of the horse to lull her into a trance. They rode for hours and hours, until the sun was at its highest point.

The sound of hoof beats roused Arya from her waking slumber, dozens of them, all around. The Hound growled, so very like his namesake, and pulled his dull-grey sword from its scabbard. Arya pulled Needle loose, though she doubted it would do much damage to mounted raiders. She stayed close to the Hound.

All of a sudden, they were surrounded on all sides by men in boiled leather. They were certainly Northmen, with long tangled hair and fierce beards. Their leader, a man who must have been a head taller than the Hound, was the hairiest and fiercest of the lot. He pulled forth a huge greatsword, and levelled it at the Hound.

“In the name of King Robb,” he said in a voice that shook the ground, “lower your steel and state your name.”

“What’s it to you?”

“We outnumber you,” the man told them, “a dozen to one. You can tell us who you are, and we’ll let you on your way, or we’ll cut you and your… companion down where you stand.”

The Hound smirked with his twisted lips, “And what makes you think you can do that, eh? I’ve taken shits with more skill with a sword than you Northern fuckers.”

The man smiled back, “This ought to be fun. I haven’t had a good fight since I scaled the walls of Pyke,” he turned to his men, “The ugly one’s mine. You should be able to handle the girl.”

He started forward, raising his sword, but Arya beat him to it, calling out in a loud, clear voice: “Wait. Please. I – I’ll tell you who we are.”

“Girl!” the Hound snapped, but Arya glared at him with fire in her eyes.

“And what makes you think we’re going to listen, girl?” the leader asked, “Your friend’s made things quite plain.”

“He’s not my friend,” Arya told him sternly, “And if you kill me, King Robb will have your head.”

The leader laughed at that, his laugh as deep and rolling as his voice, “Oh? And why would that be?”

Arya drew herself up on her horse, and tried to make herself look as ladylike as possible, “Because my name is Arya Stark, secondborn daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, sister of Robb Stark, the King in the North. I am a Princess of the North, and I demand that you take me to Winterfell immediately.”

Another gale of laughter from the assembled men.

“You?” the leader choked out, in between guffaws, “ _You’re_ Arya Stark, the King’s missing sister? Why do I not believe that? I think you’re lying, and that I should cut your mouthy little head off right now.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut you from balls to brain,” the Hound roared, his grip on his sword tightening, “You asked for our names, and the girl complied. Now take us to Winterfell, or you’ll have to explain to your king why his sister’s never coming home.”

 “And you, ser?” the leader replied, his smile arrogantly fixed, “What’s your name? If she’s Arya Stark, you must be Aemon the Dragonknight.”

“And that would make you a blind fucker,” the Hound spat, “No, I am not the fucking Dragonknight. And I’m no ser either. I’m Sandor fucking Clegane, and you should speak with more respect to a princess.”

At that, the leader paled, his smile slipping from his face. He looked sideways at his men, before wetting his lips and speaking; “The Hound? You haven’t been seen since –”

“I am aware of that,” the Hound growled, “I am aware that I was last seen running from the Blackwater. I am aware that Joffrey put out an order for my head. I am aware that I am probably a wanted fugitive across all Seven Kingdoms. So take me back to Winterfell, and take the girl too, so that her royal family can tell you who she is.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt to take you to Winterfell,” the leader muttered, “It’s only an hour’s ride. There, Prince Brandon can tell us who you really are, and we can serve justice for you, Hound.”

With that, the man turned his horse around, and trotted off, his men forming a column around Arya and the Hound. Arya’s heart thudded in her chest so loudly the others must have been able to hear it. She had seen the man’s eyes back there, the anger in them. He had wanted to cut them down, and it was only the Hound who had saved her. She owed him now; that complicated things quite a bit.

As they rode further, and the great shape of Winterfell moved closer, Arya’s tummy fluttered with anxiety. She hadn’t been home in… in years. She wondered what it would be like; whether the kitchens would smell of fresh bread every morning, like she thought she remembered, or whether her bed would be as comfortable as it used to be. She wondered whether Mother would be waiting for her in the yard with Bran, who she hadn’t seen since before his fall.

A pang stabbed through her when she realised that she was unannounced, and there would be no-one waiting for her when she arrived. Not like when she had left, all that time ago.

They rode through the gates, and Arya’s tummy did a backflip. The leader of the troop dismounted, and called for the steward. A small, young man walked forwards, a man Arya didn’t recognise. The old steward, Vayon Poole, had been killed in King’s Landing, she remembered. Arya realised that there would be a lot of unfamiliar faces in the castle now.

The steward hurried off, and they waited in the yard, whilst the castlefolk went about their business, occasionally looking up at Arya and the Hound with curious looks on their faces. She tried to smile, but found that her face would not listen to her mind.

_Calm as still water,_ she told herself, _fear cuts deeper than swords_.

Soon, the great oaken doors opened, and a group of people came out into the courtyard. First was a small man with dark hair and eyes, followed by a pale girl with a wash of brown hair and delicate features, bundled into thick furs, a small bronze crown on her hair. They were flanked by spearmen, and behind them came Rodrik Cassel, and, sitting in a wheeled chair –

“ _BRAN!_ ” Arya cried, stumbling off of her horse, and crossing the courtyard in the time it took the men around to her to realise what she was doing. In a heartbeat she was across the yard, and her little brother was in her arms.

“Your Grace!” the leader of their party cried, and Arya got the impression that he had put his hand to his sword.

“Put your steel down, my lord,” Bran said, his voice deeper and more regal than it had been the last Arya had seen him, “My sister means me no harm.”

“Bran,” Arya whispered, the word strange on her lips after so long, “Oh gods Bran, I’ve missed you, I’ve missed all of you.”

Bran smiled at her, the boyish glow of his face shining through his tears, “We’ve missed you too, Arya.”

He pulled away from her, and Arya self-consciously wiped the wetness from her cheeks. Bran addressed the crowd at large, “My sister will need fresh bedding in her room, and a change of clothes. Oh, and make sure there are some trousers in with those clothes, Edwyle,” he added, when Arya shot him a look, “My sister doesn’t like dresses.”

“Pardons, Your Grace,” the man from earlier spoke up, gesturing to the Hound, “What’s to be done with this man? He claims to be Sandor Clegane, a man now known to have kidnapped a royal princess, amongst other crimes.”

“He didn’t kidnap me!” Arya cried out, “Well, not really anyway. I’m not lying!” she added, when Bran held up a hand to shush her.

“I’m not saying that you were,” he reassured her, “See that Sandor Clegane is washed and fed. He has had a long ride, and I’ll not have it said that the Starks of Winterfell are poor hosts. Besides, he brought my sister home. He deserves mine, and the King’s, gratitude.”

The Hound stared at Bran for a moment, before thanking the Prince of Winterfell with a jerk of his head. Then, Bran turned his chair around and wheeled himself back into the castle, Arya and the rest of the odd band around them following him. The dark-haired girl walked beside her, and smiled cautiously down at Arya.

“Robb talks about you, you know,” the girl said, “All the time.”

“Who are you?” Arya blurted, before blushing, “I mean, um, I don’t know you, what is your name?”

“I am Roslin Frey,” came the reply, “Robb’s queen.”

_Oh. That’s nice._

Arya didn’t say anything to that, she just nodded awkwardly, and went to walk with Bran. As they went deeper into the castle, Arya frowned down at him, unsure of where exactly they were headed. However, as they walked – or were wheeled – their destination became apparent. The people around them peeled off to continue their duties, so that Bran and Arya were alone when they reached Father’s solar.

It was smaller than she remembered, and felt so empty without Lord Eddard Stark sitting by the fire, reading a letter from this lord or that. The walls were still lined with wolf pelts, the fireplace still crackling, the table still covered with letters, but it just wasn’t the same.

“Arya,” Bran said, snapping her out of her memories, “This is for you.”

He held out a letter with her name written in Father’s hand, and Arya tucked it away for later. She would read it tonight, she decided, when she was alone, and no-one could see her cry.

Bran looked at her, as if unsure quite what to say, “I trust that the Smalljon wasn’t too rough? He can become… impulsive when cooped up without a fight for too long, or so I’ve heard.”

“I’m fine,” Arya’s voice was small, “Is… is Mother here? Only… only I’d quite like to see her. Robb too, and even Sansa. I promise we won’t fight, I just want to see them.”

Bran’s lips trembled, “Robb’s gone to fight the King Beyond the Wall with Jon, and Sansa’s in Highgarden, where she will marry Willas Tyrell. Mother is… Mother is not…”

“Where is she, Bran?” Arya asked, before her voice rose, the tears threatening to break forth again, “ _Where is she?_ ”

“She’s… the Ironborn, they…” Bran paused, his wide blue eyes growing wider and redder and wetter, “They killed her, Arya. Balon Greyjoy killed Mother, just like Joffrey killed Father.”

_No. No, no, no, no, no, no._

_This can’t happen… this won’t happen. No, Mother, no, no!_

There was nothing to stop the tears this time, and Arya fled the room, Bran’s voice echoing after her, but she paid it no mind. She ran past servants and spearmen alike, before bursting into her old room. The steward, Edwyle, was there, holding a pile of clothing.

“Princess Arya!” he stuttered, “I-I wasn’t expecting –”

“ _Go away!_ ” Arya screamed at him, and he ran from the room, looking quite terrified.

Arya flung herself onto her bed, and, for the second time in two days, cried herself to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	34. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Squid Prince runs back to the sea

EPILOGUE

The snow was falling thicker and faster than ever in the Wolfswood. The age-old trees stood like ranks of dark, silent soldiers, guarding the North against all manner of night terrors. There was nary a leaf to be seen on the spindly branches, twigs reaching out like bony fingers.

_Winter is here, alright._

_And it’s come to take me._

Theon Greyjoy pulled his cloak tighter about his neck, face flushed from the biting wind. The cloak was patchy and coming apart almost everywhere. He’d traded it and a few hunks of bread for a ring he’d taken from Catelyn Tully’s chambers in Winterfell. He’d almost felt bad seeing the man toss the ring into a pot to be melted down. Then again, Catelyn Tully wasn’t like to berate him for it. The way things were going, he’d never find anyone to be berated by again.

All around him, the North stretched out, a thousand square miles of snow, storm and hostile swords. He’d have no luck running to Deepwood Motte, nor to Moat Cailin if any of the rumours were correct. In truth, Theon had no idea where he was going.

_North_ , the voice of old Maester Luwin whispered in his ear, _north to the Wall. A man’s past sins are wiped clean when he takes the black_.

Theon shook his head, dispelling the memory. Partly because it hurt too much to think of all he had lost in Winterfell and before, but more because he knew it was a foolish idea. Jon Snow was at the Wall, and he would have heard of Theon’s treachery, and he would not have forgotten the tales. Theon didn’t want to wake up one morning with a red smile across his throat.

_He may be Ned Stark’s son, but honour won’t prevent him from murdering me_.

Where else could Theon go? Not beyond the Wall itself, that was far too dangerous, and Theon would end up dead in a ditch even quicker that way, with wildlings all around. He shivered at the thought. He thought for a moment about stowing away on a ship bound for the Iron Islands, and retaking his place as a prince of that land. But he would be a disgrace, a reaver who could not hold any land, nor steal any riches, nor keep his crew alive. Like as not, King Balon would strike his head from his shoulders, and Theon Greyjoy would be no more.

But there was another coast in Westeros, an eastern coast. Theon had grown up on tales of the riches of the Free Cities, of the wealth a man could earn in the port of Braavos, the hills of Norvos, the manses of Pentos. Further east still, Theon could carve out a place for himself in the slave cities of Meereen, Astapor or Yunkai, or perhaps win some glory in the fighting pits. He was no Jaime Lannister, but he was castle trained, and few could match his skill with a bow.

Aye, that’s what he’d do. The worst that could happen was that he’d suffer a mortal wound in front of a foreign crowd, and die in abject agony. But, all things considered, there didn’t seem to be much else for Theon to look forward to. Die in Westeros, die at the Wall, die on the Iron Islands, die in the east. Even the trees around him seemed to be whispering it, and the ravens around him seemed to caw his name.

_Die, Theon_ , their cries were harsh on his ears, _die, die, die Theon Greyjoy._

He shivered again, and pulled his cloak around himself, trying to ignore the sound. It was his mind playing tricks, as minds were wont to do when alone in the woods. He was Theon Greyjoy; he would not be intimidated by birds and trees and wind.

A crack sounded behind him.

Theon whipped around, hand flying to where he used to wear a sword belt. He cursed himself for leaving it behind in Winterfell, but there had been little time. And anyway, it might just be an animal scared by his blundering presence. At least, Theon _hoped_ that was the case.

“Who’s there?” he asked, failing to keep the shake out of his voice, “Who’s there?”

Theon reached into his pocket, and pulled out the purse where he kept his stolen trinkets. A few rings and old coins jangled within.

“I have money, if that’s what you want,” he called into the woods, “Trinkets taken from Winterfell itself.” An idea suddenly came to him, “If you guide me out of these woods, I’ll see you richly rewarded. I am Theon Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands.”

Silence.

Then, a horrid, grating, bone-chilling sound, like ice cracking but a thousand times more terrifying. It filled the woods around him, and Theon had no idea where or what it came from. He took a step back, sweat forming on his brow. He became acutely aware of how loud his breathing was, how hard his heart beat in the silent woods. For a queer moment, he thought the sound might be laughter.

“Hello?”

Theon’s voice sounded so small and alone in the woods, and he swallowed, trying to find his courage. He looked around him, putting the purse back into his pocket. It was clear that whoever was out here had no interest in Catelyn Tully’s old jewellery.

A shape moved in the dark.

A pale, deathly thin shape, white as fresh snowfall, so white that Theon wasn’t entirely sure that he’d seen it, or whether the solitude was playing tricks on him. He swallowed nervously, but held his ground.

“Show yourself!” he called out, far more bravely than he felt, “Only a craven hides in the trees.”

_But what are you doing?_ A little voice that sounded a lot like his brother, Rodrik’s, whispered past his ear. Theon ignored the voice, and licked his lips in anticipation.

The shape stepped forward, and Theon Greyjoy cursed out of sheer terror. It was tall, far taller than Theon, and bone thin, like a starved child. Its skin was as white as the woods around it, with what looked like hair growing long and wild. Its eyes were what chilled Theon’s blood most though. For its eyes were glowing with malice, shining with a light as blue and as brilliant as raw sapphires.

_No… it’s not possible… they aren’t real._

But here it was, an Other straight out from Old Nan’s fireside tales. A small part of Theon wondered what the old woman would say if she were here, but the greater part of him was scared utterly witless. He was somewhat aware of the warm liquid running down his thigh, but personal grooming was probably the least of his concerns at this moment. He tried to back away, but found his feet rooted to the spot, just as the trees around him were.

The Other unsheathed a milkglass blade from behind its back, the blade gleaming with an unholy majesty. Theon was briefly able to appreciate the strange beauty of the blade, before it came whispering down towards him. He didn’t register the cut, only the dull thumps of his body and head hitting the ground.

In his last moments of consciousness, as the darkness began to swallow him, Theon wondered if this is what Ned Stark felt, the moment when the executioners blade had struck him right on his stiff bloody neck. And then, as the world went black, Theon saw the Other turn north, and make for the great Wall of ice and snow that guarded the realms of men…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> We've reached the end of the very first part of this story, and I just want to say a huge thank you. I couldn't have kept going with this if I hadn't received all the support and positive comments that I did. Thanks as well for all the criticism, both constructive and less so, because all feedback is important. I feel so honoured to have you guys reading my stuff, and thanks again.  
> I will be publishing the second book in this series "The Wolf King" soon, so, if you are interested, please give my series "The Young Wolf Trilogy" a bookmark, but I will post a little extra on the end of this when I put up the first chapter of that.  
> Thank you so much again,  
> The Professor of Writing


	35. Appendix

APPENDIX

_ THE KINGS AND THEIR COURTS _

THE KING ON THE IRON THRONE

**KING JOFFREY BARATHEON** First of his Name. A boy of thirteen years.

 **CERSEI LANNISTER** his mother, the Queen Regent.

 **MYRCELLA BARATHEON** His sister, nine. Betrothed to TRYSTANE MARTELL.

 **TOMMEN BARATHEON** Joffrey’s younger brother. A boy of eight and heir to the Iron Throne.

HIS EXTENDED FAMILY

 **STANNIS BARATHEON** Joffrey’s uncle on his father’s side, styling himself King Stannis the First.

 **{RENLY BARATHEON}** Joffrey’s uncle on his father’s side, styling himself King Renly the First. Slain by black magic.

 **SER JAIME LANNISTER** The Queen Regent’s twin, called THE KINGSLAYER. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, captive of Robb Stark’s.

 **TYRION LANNISTER** Acting Hand of the King, called THE IMP.

 **PODRICK PAYNE** Tyrion’s squire.

 **SHAE** A whore.

HIS SMALL COUNCIL

**GRAND MAESTER PYCELLE**

**PETYR BAELISH** Called LITTLEFINGER, Master of Coin and Lord of Harrenhal.

 **VARYS** Called THE SPIDER, Master of Whisperers. A eunuch of uncertain origin.

HIS KINGSGUARD

 **SER JAIME LANNISTER** called THE KINGSLAYER. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, captive of Robb Stark’s.

 **SANDOR CLEGANE** Called THE HOUND

**SER BOROS BLOUNT**

**SER MANDON MOORE**

**SER MERYN TRANT**

**SER PRESTON GREENFIELD**

**SER ARYS OAKHEART**

HIS PRINCIPLE BANNERMEN

 **TYWIN LANNISTER** Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West.

Joffrey’s banner contains the stag of House Baratheon and the lion of House Lannister, combatant.

THE KING IN THE NARROW SEA

**KING STANNIS BARATHEON** First of his Name, the elder of {ROBERT BARATHEON’S} brothers, Lord of Dragonstone.

 **QUEEN SELYSE FLORENT** His wife, of House Florent

 **PRINCESS SHIREEN BARATHEON** His daughter, ten years old.

HIS SIBLINGS

 **{ROBERT BARATHEON}** First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Slain by a boar.

 **{RENLY BARATHEON}** First of his Name, King in Highgarden. Slain by black magic.

HIS COURT AND ADVISORS

 **SER DAVOS SEAWORTH** Called THE ONION KNIGHT, once a smuggler.

**MAESTER PYLOS**

**SER AXELL FLORENT** Castellan of Dragonstone and uncle of Queen Selyse.

 **LADY MELISANDRE OF ASSHAI** Called THE RED WOMAN. A Priestess of R’hllor, the Lord of Light.

HIS PRINCIPLE BANNERMEN

 **ARDRIAN CELTIGAR** Lord of Claw Isle.

 **MONFORD VELARYON** Lord of The Tides

 **SALLADHOR SAAN** A pirate, styling himself THE PRINCE OF THE NARROW SEA

King Stannis’ banner is the crowned stag of House Baratheon consumed by the fiery heart of the Lord of Light.

THE KING IN THE NORTH AND OF THE TRIDENT

**KING ROBB STARK** King of the First Men, Lord of Winterfell, eldest son of CATELYN TULLY and {EDDARD STARK}

 **GREY WIND** His direwolf

 **LADY CATELYN TULLY** His widowed mother.

 **PRINCESS SANSA STARK** Robb’s eldest sister, prisoner in King’s Landing.

 **PRINCESS ARYA STARK** Robb’s second sister, missing in the Riverlands.

 **PRINCE BRANDON STARK** Called BRAN, heir to the North.

 **PRINCE RICKON STARK** Robb’s youngest trueborn brother

 **JON SNOW** A member of the Night’s Watch, bastard half-brother of Robb Stark.

HIS EXTENDED FAMILY

 **{BRANDON STARK}** Lord Eddard’s elder brother, slain by AERYS TARGARYEN

 **{LYANNA STARK}** Lord Eddard’s sister, died mysteriously

 **BENJEN STARK** Lord Eddard’s younger brother, missing beyond the Wall.

 **LYSA ARRYN** Lady Catelyn’s younger sister, Lady of the Vale.

 **SER EDMURE TULLY** Lady Catelyn’s younger brother, heir to Riverrun.

 **SER BRYNDEN TULLY** Lady Catelyn’s uncle, called THE BLACKFISH.

HIS WAR COUNCIL

 **JON UMBER** Called THE GREATJON, the Lord of The Last Hearth.

 **RICKARD KARSTARK** Lord of Karhold.

 **GALBART GLOVER** Lord of Deepwood Motte.

 **SER AENYS FREY** Third son of LORD WALDER FREY

 **HOWLAND REED** Lord of Greywater Watch

 **{ROOSE BOLTON}** Lord of the Dreadfort, slain at the Crag.

**BRYNDEN TULLY**

HIS PRINCIPLE BANNERMEN

**JON UMBER**

**HOSTER TULLY** Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident.

 **WALDER FREY** Lord of the Crossing, sometimes called THE LATE LORD WALDER.

**RICKARD KARSTARK**

**WYMAN MANDERLY** Lord of White Harbour, building ships in the North.

Robb Stark’s banner is the same as House Stark’s has been for eight thousand years; a direwolf running across a field of white.

THE KING OF THE IRON ISLANDS

**KING BALON GREYJOY** Ninth of his Name since the Grey King. Sometimes called BALON TWICE CROWNED or THE KRAKEN KING.

 **QUEEN ALANNYS HARLAW** His wife.

 **{RODRIK}** His eldest son, slain during the Greyjoy Rebellion.

 **{MARON}** His second son, slain during the Greyjoy Rebellion.

 **ASHA** His only daughter, captain of _The Black Wind_

 **THEON** His third son, called THEON TURNCLOAK, fostered at Winterfell.

HIS BROTHERS

 **EURON GREYJOY** Called THE CROW’S EYE, exiled from the Iron Islands.

 **VICTARION GREYJOY** Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.

 **AERON GREYJOY** A priest of the Drowned God, called THE DAMPHAIR.

HIS PRINCIPLE BANNERMEN

 **RODRIK HARLAW** Lord of the Ten Towers

 **SAWANE BOTELY** Lord of Lordsport

 **BAELOR BLACKTYDE** Lord of Blacktyde

 **DONNOR SALTCLIFFE** Lord of Saltcliffe

The sigil of House Greyjoy is a gold kraken on a field of black.

THE QUEEN ACROSS THE SEA

**DAENERYS TARGARYEN** , Stormborn, styling herself Queen Daenerys First of her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Daughter of AERYS THE SECOND. Called the Mother of Dragons.

HER LATE FAMILY

 **{AERYS TARGARYEN}** the Second of his Name, last Targaryen King of Westeros. Slain by JAIME LANNISTER

 **{RHAELLE TARGARYEN}** Aerys’ sister-wife, Daenerys’ mother. Died in childbed

 **{RHAEGAR TARGARYEN}** Prince of Dragonstone, slain by ROBERT BARATHEON

 **{ELIA MARTELL}** his wife, murdered by GREGOR CLEGANE

 **{RHAENYS AND AEGON TARGARYEN}** his children, murdered by GREGOR CLEGANE

 **{VISERYS TARGARYEN}** killed by KHAL DROGO

 **{KHAL DROGO}** Daenerys’ husband, died of infection.

HER RETAINERS

 **SER JORAH MORMONT** an exile

 **STRONG BELWAS** a former pit fighter

 **ARSTAN WHITEBEARD** Belwas’ squire

 **JHOGO** her bloodrider

 **AGGO** her bloodrider

 **RAKHARO** her bloodrider

 **MISSANDEI** a Naathi scribe

HER DRAGONS

**DROGON, RHAEGAL AND VISERION**

Daenerys bears the three-headed dragon of Targaryen on her standard.

_OTHER HOUSES OF WESTEROS_

HOUSE ARRYN

**ROBERT ARRYN** Lord of the Vale, Warden of the East, a sickly boy of eight.

 **LYSA TULLY** His mother, of House Tully, widow of {JON ARRYN}

HIS BANNERMEN

 **YOHN ROYCE** Called BRONZE YOHN, Lord of Runestone.

 **NESTOR ROYCE** High Steward of the Vale, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon.

 **LADY ANYA WAYNWOOD** Lady of Ironoaks.

 **HARROLD HARDYNG** Called HARRY THE HEIR, heir to the Vale.

 **EON HUNTER** Lord of Longbow Hall.

The sigil of House Arryn is a falcon on a blue field. Their words are _As High as Honour_

HOUSE MARTELL

**DORAN NYMEROS MARTELL** Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear.

 **MELLARIO OF NORVOS** His wife.

 **ARIANNE MARTELL** His daughter and heir.

 **QUENTYN MARTELL** His eldest son, absent from Dorne.

 **TRYSTANE MARTELL** His younger son, betrothed to Myrcella Baratheon.

HIS OTHER FAMILY

 **{ELIA MARTELL}** Wife of {RHAEGAR TARGARYEN} murdered during the Sack of King’s Landing

 **{RHAENYS TARGARYEN}** Her daughter, murdered during the Sack of King’s Landing.

 **{AEGON TARGARYEN}** Her son, murdered during the Sack of King’s Landing.

 **OBERYN MARTELL** Called THE RED VIPER.

 **ELLARIA SAND** His paramour.

 **OBARA, NYMERIA, TYENE, SARELLA, ELIA, OBELLA, DOREA, LOREZA** his bastard daughters by various mothers, called THE SAND SNAKES.

HIS PRINCIPLE BANNERMEN

 **ANDERS YRONWOOD** Lord of Yronwood.

 **EDRIC DAYNE** Lord of Starfall.

The sigil of House Martell is a sun pierced by a spear. Their words are _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken._

HOUSE TYRELL

**MACE TYRELL** Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South.

 **LADY ALERIE HIGHTOWER** His wife.

 **WILLAS TYRELL** His crippled son and heir.

 **GARLAN TYRELL** called THE GALLANT, his second son.

 **LORAS TYRELL** called THE KNIGHT OF FLOWERS his third son.

 **MARGAERY TYRELL** The fifteen-year-old widow of {RENLY BARATHEON}

HIS OTHER FAMILY

 **OLENNA TYRELL** His mother, called THE QUEEN OF THORNS.

 **MINA REDWYNE** his sister, wed to LORD PAXTER REDWYNE.

 **JANNA FOSSOWAY**.

HIS PRINCIPLE BANNERMEN

 **RANDYLL TARLY** Lord of Horn Hill.

 **PAXTER REDWYNE** Lord of the Arbor.

 **MATHIS ROWAN** Lord of Goldengrove.

 **ALESTER FLORENT** Lord of Brightwater Keep, in support of STANNIS BARATHEON.

 **LEYTON HIGHTOWER** Lord of Oldtown.

The sigil of House Tyrell is a golden rose. Their words are _Growing Strong_.

HOUSE LANNISTER

**TYWIN LANNISTER** Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Shield of Lannisport.

 **{JOANNA LANNISTER}** His late wife and cousin

**THEIR CHILDREN**

**SER JAIME LANNISTER** called THE KINGSLAYER. Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, captive of Robb Stark’s.

 **CERSEI LANNISTER** his daughter, the Queen Regent.

 **TYRION LANNISTER** Acting Hand of the King, called THE IMP.

HIS OTHER FAMILY

 **SER KEVAN LANNISTER** His eldest brother.

 **GENNA LANNISTER** His sister.

 **{SER TYGETT LANNISTER}** His second brother, died of the pox.

 **{GERION LANNISTER}** His youngest brother, lost at sea.

HIS PRINCIPLE BANNERMEN

 **DAMON MARBRAND** Lord of Ashemark.

 **ROLAND CRAKEHALL** Lord of Crakehall.

 **GAWEN WESTERLING** Lord of the Crag, captive at Seagard.

 **QUENTEN BANEFORT** Lord of Banefort.

 **SER GREGOR CLEGANE** Knight of Clegane’s Keep, called THE MOUNTAIN THAT RIDES, or just THE MOUNTAIN, a huge, savage man.

The sigil of House Lannister is a golden lion. Their words are _Hear Me Roar!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I’d love to hear any constructive criticism or feedback you guys have, either through a review on here, or to my Tumblr page, where I try and post snippets;  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theprofessorofwriting


	36. New Story

Hi everyone!

I'm back with a new story, the sequel to this one. It's called The Wolf King, and you might want to check it out. You'll be able to find it on my profile, or at the end of this link right here http://archiveofourown.org/works/9410642/chapters/21304025

What are you still waiting for? Go!

TPOW


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